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THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GAME-BIRDS 
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BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 

"That  prince  of  sportsmen,  T.  S.  VAN  DYKE."— Sacramento 
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SOUTHERN  CALIFORNIA  : 

Its  Valleys,  Hills,  and  Streams ;  Its  Animals,  Birds,  and 
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A  Practical  Treatise    on   Deer-Stalking.    12010,  Ex.  Clo., 

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"The  best,  the  very  best  work  on  deer- hunting.  "—Spirit  of  the 
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"Altogether  the  best  and  most  complete  American  book  we 
have  yet  seen  on  any  branch  of  field  sports."— New  York  Evening 
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RIFLE,  ROD,  and  GUN  in  CALIFORNIA  : 

A  Sporting  Romance.  Ex.  Clo.,  beveled,  $1.50;  paper, 
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nia. 

MILLIONAIRES   OF  A    DAY: 

An  Inside  History  of  the  Great  Southern  California  Boom. 
Ex.  Clo.,  beveled,  $1.00;  paper,  50  cents. 
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GAME  BIRDS 
AT  HOME 


BY  THEODORE  S.  VAN  DYKE 
AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  STILL  HUNTER"  | 
"  SOUTHERN  CALIFORNIA"  ;  ETC. 


NEW- YORK:  FORDS,  HOWARD, 
AND  HULBERT*  1895 


COPYRIGHT,  IN  1895, 

BY 
THEODORE  S.  VAN  DYKE. 


3/3 


PREFACE. 


To  the  majority  of  sportsmen  love  of  nature 
is  the  principal  element  in  the  love  of  hunting. 
The  pleasure  of  exercising  skill  in  the  finding 
and  capture  of  game  is  really  secondary  to  this, 
and  still  more  subordinate  is  the  flavor  or  size  of 
the  game.  Thousands  enjoy  a  stroll  with  the 
dog,  out  of  season,  almost  as  well  as  the  real 
hunt. 

To  please  such,  a  book  should  be  made  up  of 
selected  charms  of  the  field. 

These  are,  first  and  foremost,  the  nature  of 
the  game,  its  action  and  behavior.  The  mere 
form  or  size  is  of  no  more  consequence  than 
the  flavor.  Why  the  action  of  certain  birds  will 
give  man  more  delight  than  that  of  others  is 
one  of  nature's  secrets.  We  can  only  say  it  is 
charming ;  and  describe  it  as  we  know  it. 

5 


5      6105 
365119 


6  PREFACE. 

Besides  its  own  fascination,  this  action  must 
be  such  as  to  require  a  high  degree  of  skill  in 
man  or  dog,  and  generally  in  both,  to  effect 
capture.  Yet,  though  game  must  occasionally 
drop  to  gratify  man's  inborn  love  of  exercising 
skill,  there  must  be  no  murder. 

Then,  too,  the  stage  of  action  must  be  the 
home  of  the  bird, — that  natural  scenery  the 
sportsman  loves  so  well  to  roam  without  a  gun. 
And  this  must  be  depicted  true  in  color  to  its 
place  and  season. 

Small  room  for  mistake  is  left  me  on  these 
points,  after  forty  years  of  play  with  the  gun 
and  eighteen  years  of  writing  for  the  sportsmen 
of  America.  Chiefly  for  them  this  book  is 
written,  and  that  rather  to  touch  certain  tender 
chords  of  memory  than  to  convey  information ; 
although  the  lover  of  nature  who  is  not  yet  an 
expert  huntsman  may,  I  trust,  find  some  hints 
of  experience  not  altogether  without  value  to 
him. 

As  to  pictorial  illustration,  it  is  a  sound  rule 
of  art  that  a  picture  must  explain  itself:  one 
that  requires  exposition,  or  wandering  of  the 
eye  to  connect  leading  features,  is  generally  a 


PREFACE.  7 

bore.  But  when  you  apply  this  rule  to  a  picture 
of  field-sports — especially  with  small  game,  limit 
the  action  to  a  narrow  background,  and  against 
this  group  the  actors  so  clearly  that  every  one 
must  understand  it  at  a  glance,  you  have  por- 
trayed rank  murder.  Though  easy  killing  occa- 
sionally happens,  it  is  a  matter  always  of  regret, 
not  of  pride ;  a  parade  of  it  is  simply  digusting. 
Fine  drawing  of  shiny  guns,  fancy  leggings, 
and  other  fashionable  "  toggery"  on  the  killer 
behind  the  gun,  help  this  kind  of  "art"  like  a 
red  rosette  on  the  tail  of  the  prize  ox  falling 
beneath  the  sledge  at  the  shambles.  Even  a 
butcher  would  be  disgusted  with  a  painting  of  a 
lamb  bleeding  on  the  block ;  and  the  more  per- 
fect the  dripping  blood,  the  more  damnable  the 
outrage  upon  art  in  the  selection  of  such  a 
subject. 

A  picture  that  should  even  touch  the  field 
that  charms — with  its  wide  range,  its  varied 
features  and  colors,  and  its  almost  invisible  game 
— would  be  more  of  a  map  than  a  picture.  The 
rules  of  art  cannot  be  safely  violated.  Neither 
can  the  rules  of  the  sportsman's  taste :  and  Posi- 
tively no  murder  is  the  first  of  these.  I  have 


8  PREFACE. 

tried  to  reconcile  these  conflicting  elements,  but 
have  not  yet  succeeded  to  my  own  satisfaction. 
As  this  is  not  the  Blood-Snuffer's  Manual,  I 
illustrate  with  facts,  in  words.  For  most  of  my 
readers  this  will  be  clear  enough. 

Los  ANGELES,  CAL.,  May,  1895. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

I.  BOB  WHITE n 

II.  THE  WOODCOCK 28 

III.  THE  RUFFED  GROUSE 44 

IV.  THE  PINNATED  GROUSE 61 

V.  THE  SHARP-TAILED  GROUSE 77 

VI.     DAYS  AMONG  THE  DUCKS 92 

VII.     DAYS  ON  THE  ILLINOIS 106 

VIII.     THE  WILD  GOOSE 119 

IX.     THE  AMERICAN  CRANES 133 

X.     DAYS  AMONG  THE  PLOVER 146 

XI.     THE  QUAILS  CF  CALIFORNIA 159 

XII.     WILSON'S  SNIPE  178 

XIII.  SALT-WATER  BIRDS 192 

XIV.  THE  WILD  TURKEY 205 

9 


GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 


I. 

BOB    WHITE. 

CRIMSON  stars  the  gum-tree's  glossy  green, 
the  speckled  breast  of  the  young  robin  is  turn- 
ing reddish  brown,  chips  of  nutshells  begin  to 
carpet  the  ground  beneath  the  lofty  hickory,  and 
a  vague  yearning  steals  over  the  sportsman. 
Strange  yet  tender  feeling,  unlike  anything 
else  in  the  human  breast, — and  how  early  it 
comes !  The  massive  green  of  the  timbered  hill 
is  yet  untinged  with  gold,  and  the  blue  gentian 
has  scarcely  unfolded  its  fringed  petals,  while 
down  by  the  brook  the  chelone  is  just  opening 
its  hood  of  pinkish  white.  From  the  slender 
spikes  of  the  linaria  still  hang  racemes  of  softest 


12  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

blue ;  amid  the  down  of  the  thistle  yet  gleam 
the  yellow  and  black  of  the  goldfinch,  and  the 
hare  still  makes  his  form  in  the  woods  instead  of 
going  to  the  open.  Little  sign  of  autumn ;  yet 
that  strange  feeling  deepens  by  the  day. 

Anon  the  bobolink  in  somber  suit  chirps  sad 
farewell  above  our  heads,  russet  and  gold  steal 
over  the  oaks,  red  lights  the  fading  green  of  the 
maple,  and  a  change  comes  over  the  old  dog. 
No  longer  does  he  tap  out  a  lazy  welcome  on  the 
floor  with  his  tail  at  your  approach,  but  springs 
to  his  feet  and  with  sparkling  eye  tries  to  fathom 
your  intentions. 

A  few  more  days,  and  from  the  edge  of  the 
timber,  where  the  sweet  berries  of  the  viburnum 
are  darkening  among  its  reddening  leaves,  comes 
a  Cloi-ee — eey  cloi-ee — ee,  cloi-ee — ee,  cloi-ee — ee 
that  sets  your  soul  ablaze.  How  different  from 
the  "  Bob  White  "  that  so  lately  rang  across  the 
harvest-field,  yet  how  gentle  and  penetrating 
this  autumn  call  of  the  quail !  He  who  has  never 
felt  its  sweet  power  when  the  hills  are  arrayed  in 
crimson  and  gold  and  a  mellower  sunlight  falls 
from  on  high  has  missed  the  strangest  emotion 
of  the  human  breast.  And  strong  must  be  the 


BOB    WHITE.  13 

chains  of  business  to  hold  one  when  the  pearly 
scales  of  the  everlasting  rustle  in  the  fall  winds 
and  the  persimmon  is  reddening  among  its  half- 
bare  branches,  when  the  jingling  note  of  the  jay 
in  the  russet  of  the  white  oak  is  nearly  all  that 
remains  of  the  late  music  of  the  woods,  and  the 
crimson  of  the  cardinal  grosbeak  the  last  flash  of 
brilliant  life. 

What  bright  oases  on  the  desert  of  existence 
were  those  mornings  when  the  hoar-frost  sparkled 
on  the  buckwheat-stubble  with  the  dogs  in  roll- 
ing canter  sniffing  the  bracing  air !  The  squeal 
of  the  highholder  or  mournful  piping  of  the 
robin,  the  flitting  gray  of  some  belated  song- 
sparrow,  the  tender  twittering  of  waxwings  flirt- 
ing their  golden  edgings  and  long  topknots  in 
the  dark  cedar,  and  the  dull  Chuck  of  some  lone 
blackbird  hastening  south  above  our  heads,  all 
cast  a  saddening  influence  around  the  dying  year. 
Yet  we  never  felt  so  full  of  gladsome  life,  hearts 
never  beat  with  higher  expectations,  and  dogs 
never  showed  more  sparkling  eyes.  We  knew 
the  shortest  stubble  could  hold  dozens  of  the 
dear  little  quails  within  a  few  feet  of  us,  and  only 
the  keen  nose  of  the  dog  could  tell  us  of  their 


14  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

presence.  The  dogs,  too,  knew  our  inability  and 
felt  proud  of  our  reliance  on  them.  And  when 
at  last  they  settled  to  unwavering  firmness  and 
from  before  them  rose  lines  of  brown  mingled 
with  white  and  ashy  blue  and  spots  of  black, 
with  a  haze  on  either  side  made  by  whizzing 
wings,  all  spinning  at  tremendous  speed  for  the 
timber,  it  mattered  little  whether  we  had  a  gun 
or  not.  Many  a  mile,  before  the  law  permitted 
shooting,  have  I  roamed  without  a  gun  to  see 
that  sight,  and  many  a  mile  would  I  go  to-day 
to  see  it  once  more. 

There  was  deep  satisfaction,  too,  in  being  the 
victim  of  that  trick  of  Bob's,  withholding  scent. 
Whether  he  did  it  voluntarily  or  not  was  all 
the  same;  and  when  we  had  tramped  and  re- 
tramped  the  exact  spot  on  which  we  saw  a  dozen 
birds  alight,  and  the  noses  lately  so  keen  had 
swept  almost  every  inch  of  it  without  finding 
more  than  a  bird  or  two  and  perhaps  none,  our 
disappointment  was  mingled  with  pleasure  in 
having  a  genius  to  cope  with.  And  there  was 
no  half-hour  more  pleasant  than  that  we  spent 
whistling  an  occasional  imitation  of  his  soft 
autumn  call  and  waiting  for  him  to  move. 


BOB    WHITE.  15 

And  what  delightful  anticipation  when  the  ten- 
der Cloi-ee — ee,  cloi-ee — ee,  cloi-ee — ee  came  in 
plaintive  tones  from  where  the  witch-hazel  was 
putting  forth  its  long  golden  petals,  and  another 
answered  from  where  the  red  berries  of  the 
wintergreen  were  still  shining  among  its  ever- 
green leaves ;  and  another  chimed  in  where  the 
scarlet  arils  of  the  bittersweet  were  blazing  in 
the  tangled  brake,  and  from  the  bunch  of  briers 
almost  beside  you  and  the  clumps  of  whitening 
grass  in  front  came  from  another,  another,  and 
another  little  throat  the  same  sweet  note ! 

How  close  they  lay,  and  what  short  flights 
they  made,  before  persecution  changed  the  habits 
of  these  charming  birds!  Yet  even  then  how 
hard  to  get !  Do  you  remember,  when  the  dog 
stood  over  a  clump  of  dead  grass  with  nose 
almost  perpendicular,  how  often  you  had  to  kick 
in  it  before  anything  would  move?  And  when 
out  it  came,  and  the  dog  made  a  vain  snap  at  its 
tail,  and  it  curled  over  your  head  and  vanished 
among  the  dense  green  of  the  cat-brier  before 
you  could  turn  around,  and  curiosity  and  re- 
proach were  mingled  in  the  deep  dark  eye  the 
dear  old  dog  turned  for  a  moment  upon  you, 


1 6  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

you  felt  very  small.  Yet  you  felt  consolation  in 
being  victimized  by  such  a  smart  bird,  and  went 
on  to  look  for  another  with  more  love  than  ever. 
And  when  again  you  found  the  dog  in  icy  rigid- 
ity where  the  woolly  tails  of  the  clematis  made  a 
haze  in  the  thicket  of  wild  plum  by  the  brook- 
side,  and  through  the  dense  tangle  of  twigs  and 
still  clinging  leaves  two  brown  streaks  shot  from 
before  him  and  you  had  to  drop  on  one  knee  to 
get  a  full  sight  of  them  and  have  your  gun  clear 
of  the  brush, — who  would  suppose  that  anything 
but  disappointment  could  be  your  portion  again? 
Ah !  when  along  the  gun  you  caught  a  glimpse 
of  buzzing  white  where  the  mottled  breast  was 
wheeling  through  an  opening,  and  dimly  saw  a 
puff  of  feathers  mingle  with  the  shower  of  dead 
leaves  and  twigs,  yet  had  no  time  to  mark  re- 
sults, but  turned  the  gun  into  the  mass  of  cover 
in  which  the  other  bird  had  already  vanished, 
and  sent  another  charge  of  shot  a  foot  or  two 
ahead  of  the  last  place  where  you  saw  it — what 
sweet  uncertainty  was  that!  You  fancied  you 
heard  each  time  a  faint  thump  on  the  ground, 
but  fancy  had  toyed  too  often  with  your  hopes. 
And  when  the  dog  drew  and  picked  up  some- 


BOB    WHITE,  17 

thing  from  near  where  the  first  one  should  have 
fallen,  how  your  heart  swelled  with  pride !  But 
when  he  vanished  in  the  direction  the  other 
bird  had  taken,  and  the  pattering  of  his  feet  on 
the  dead  leaves  slowly  ceased,  and  for  a  moment 
all  was  still,  and  then  in  joyous  gallop  he  re- 
turned with  a  dead  bird  and  laid  it  in  your  hand, 
you  felt  you  had  not  lived  in  vain.  Foolish 
feelings,  perhaps ;  but  the  best  of  our  race  have 
yielded  to  their  soft  sway,  and  dear  little  Bob 
White  has  brought  more  rest  to  the  business- 
wearied  soul,  more  new  life  to  tired  humanity, 
than  nearly  all  other  American  game  combined. 
In  his  sweet  presence  you  feel  a  contempt  for 
"  trophies,"  for  game  that  some  Indian  has  to 
call  up  to  you,  or  a  guide  row  you  up  to.  Mere 
trash  is  all  game  too  big  to  handle,  beside  this 
little  beauty  that  fills  but  a  corner  of  your  pocket. 
On  no  other  bird  does  the  sportsman's  best 
companion  so  delight  his  soul  with  noble  work. 
Years  cannot  blot  the  memory  of  the  long  trail 
old  Don  made  on  that  November  morning  when 
the  covey  you  had  found  on  the  stubble  and  driven 
into  the  wood  had  become  too  widely  scattered 
for  farther  hunting.  About  the  time  you  had 


1 8  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

given  up  hope  of  finding  any  more  birds,  the  dog 
suddenly  seemed  weary.  His  legs  dragged  and 
settled  to  a  pace  suitable  for  a  snail's  funeral. 
On  he  went,  with  young  Frank  waddling  solemnly 
along  in  the  rear  as  if  an  old  hand  at  the  business. 
Rod  after  rod  Don  crept,  sneaking  under  fallen 
logs,  winding  cautiously  around  tree-tops,  crawl- 
ing through  cat-briers,  sniffing  the  air  gingerly 
with  twitching  nostrils;  Frank  following  with 
funereal  tread :  but  neither  pointing.  On  they 
go  one  hundred  yards,  then  fifty  more  with  pace 
becoming  slower;  but  still  they  do  not  stop. 
Don's  pace  settles  to  a  crawl,  with  the  wavy 
motion  of  his  tail  almost  ceasing,  yet  on  he  goes, 
and  Frank,  so  well  born  that  he  scarcely  needs 
breaking,  creeps  thievishly  along,  full  thirty  feet 
in  the  rear. 

From  a  bunch  of  briers  a  few  feet  from  Don's 
nose  a  hare  scatters  the  dry  leaves  with  rapid 
foot.  Chasing  a  hare  was  the  only  weakness  of 
that  good  old  dog,  and  no  amount  of  thrashing 
or  failures  to  catch  a  hare  ever  taught  him  the 
inexpediency  of  the  pursuit.  But  now  with  con- 
temptuous glance  at  the  bit  of  flickering  wool 
he  goes  straight  on.  Down  in  the  shade,  along 


BOB    WHITE.  19 

a  little  spring  run,  he  winds  more  and  more 
slowly  where  the  horsetails  stand  tall  and  gray 
and  the  bracken-ferns  are  rusty  and  red.  Sud- 
denly he  comes  to  a  dead  stop,  settling  low  like 
a  crouching  cat,  with  tail  quivering  at  the  tip  and 
nose  pointed  at  a  clump  of  ferns  a  few  feet  ahead. 
From  the  ferns  a  brown  haze  of  buff  and  rose- 
wood colors  tipped  with  a  long  bill  whirls  spiral- 
ly upward  through  the  tree-tops  with  whistling 
wing,  but  not  a  feather  accompanies  the  little 
shower  of  twigs  and  dead  leaves  your  shot  brings 
down. 

A  long  trail,  wasn't  it?  But  who  ever  knew  a 
woodcock  run  that  far? 

Old  Don  answers  by  going  slowly  on  again, 
young  Frank  prowling  along  with  the  gravity  of 
a  sphinx.  Down  a  long  slope,  over  the  bright 
green  leaves  and  shining  red  berries  of  the  par- 
tridge-berry, now  with  majestic  march  that 
shows  sublime  confidence  in  the  outcome,  now 
with  the  slow  caution  of  a  circus  elephant  walk- 
ing over  his  keeper,  now  with  a  bit  of  wavering 
that  shows  the  game  far  ahead,  but  still  with  no 
lack  of  faith,  old  Don  leads,  with  Frank  still 
creeping  in  the  rear. 


20  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

And  at  last  Don  almost  stops,  and  with  nose 
upraised  and  slowly  oscillating  tail  sniffs  tenderly 
in  the  direction  of  a  fallen  tree-top  a  few  yards 
off,  then,  moving  two  or  three  half-steps  with 
extreme  caution,  settles  into  a  statue,  with  eyes 
intently  fixed  on  the  ground  at  the  bottom  of 
the  tree-top. 

B — bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb  roars  suddenly  from  the 
tangle  of  briers  around  the  tree-top,  and  a  ruffed 
grouse,  scattering  the  dry  leaves  at  the  first  burst 
of  obstreperous  wing,  roars  like  a  rocket  upward. 
But,  as  his  fanlike  tail  with  its  brown  and  gray 
and  bars  of  jet  fades  amid  the  crowding  twigs 
and  leaves  that  still  cling  to  the  white-oak,  Bang 
goes  the  gun  aimed  quickly  a  yard  or  more 
ahead  of  the  last  glimpse  of  brown,  and  down 
through  crashing  leaves  and  crackling  twigs 
whirls  something  with  a  thump  to  earth. 

Wonderfully  well  done,  wasn't  it?  But  was 
it  not  also  a  very  long  trail  for  a  ruffed  grouse? 
Ah !  Wait :  Don's  actions  tell  the  story,  for 
he  resumes  the  grave  tread  of  a  moment  ago, 
and  on  he  goes  right  past  the  fallen  grouse, 
noticing  it  only  with  a  sniff,  while  Frank  stops 
a  moment  and,  looking  alternately  from  you  to 


BOB    WHITE.  21 

Don,  finally  brings  it  to  you  and  then  resumes 
his  place  in  the  procession. 

Fifty  yards  more  and  Don  stops,  tosses  up  his 
nose  a  few  times  with  dainty  sniffs  of  the  breeze, 
looks  around  at  you  with  a  tremendous  mingling 
of  importance  and  satisfaction,  and  then  waddles 
slowly  on  again.  A  few  yards  more  and  he 
stops  as  if  carved  of  stone.  Then  his  tail  begins 
to  waver,  he  raises  his  nose  again,  then,  creeping 
a  few  feet,  he  stops  at  the  crest  of  a  little  knoll, 
and  from  the  patches  of  briers  on  the  other  side 
comes  at  last,  on  your  approach,  that  burst  of  buz- 
zing quail-wings  that  you  have  so  longed  to  hear. 

The  habits  of  Bob  White  in  the  West  differ  a 
little  from  those  of  his  brethren  on  the  Atlantic 
shores,  but  he  is  still  the  same  lovely  bird.  After 
he  recovers  from  his  crazy  spell  in  the  first  days 
of  Indian  Summer,  when  he  gathers  in  droves, 
runs  into  town,  and  sometimes  bumps  his  head 
against  some  building  in  his  swift  flight,  he 
separates  again  into  coveys ;  and  though  he  rarely 
lies  so  closely  as  in  the  East,  he  makes  fine  shoot- 
ing. The  hedges  of  Osage  orange  used  to  be 
his  favorite  hiding-place  on  the  prairie.  With 
the  dog  to  the  leeward,  two  persons  could  have 


22  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

fine  shooting,  one  on  each  side  of  the  hedge. 
Quick  work  was  needed  when  out  from  the 
thorny  mass  the  bird  came  whizzing  in  full  head- 
way. Like  a  flash  he  was  fading  amid  the  tall 
gray  stalks  of  the  corn  still  standing  dense  and 
close  to  the  hedge.  Quick  as  thought  had  to 
be  your  aim  if  you  wanted  to  see  him  whirl  down 
amid  the  yellow  pumpkins,  for  if  he  once  van- 
ished in  that  corn  he  was  no  more  for  you  that 
day. 

Nor  was  it  so  easy  when  out  on  the  open 
prairie-side  he  came  curling,  with  the  sunlight 
dancing  on  his  mottled  breast  of  black  and 
white,  his  little  blue  tail  outspread,  and  the  soft 
rosewood  hues  of  his  back  in  plain  sight,  wheeled 
around  you  perhaps  and  started  down  the  hedge 
again.  On  that  gigantic  background  it  was  easy 
to  underestimate  the  speed  and  distance  of  the 
fleeting  beauty,  and  just  behind  him  the  tall 
rosin-weed  often  bowed  its  still  golden  head  and 
sank  to  earth  at  the  report  of  your  first  barrel, 
while  the  second  scattered  some  of  the  lingering 
sunflowers  and  brought  perhaps  a  feather  from 
the  little  blue  tail,  the  loss  of  which  only  made 
its  owner  seem  to  vanish  more  swiftly. 


BOB    WHITE.  23 

Where  the  prairie  merges  into  timber  in  a  line 
of  rolling  hills  well  covered  with  hazel  this  bird 
is  most  at  home  when  the  frost  has  tattered  the 
proud  banners  of  the  hills.  Down  in  the  little 
swale  where  the  rich  pink  of  the  rose  mallow  but 
lately  glowed,  and  the  faded  petals  still  cling  to 
the  gray  stem,  the  bevy,  shaded  by  the  hazel 
from  the  winds,  lies  basking  in  the  sun.  A  gay 
whirl  and  roar  they  make  as  they  spin  away 
among  the  dead  stalks  from  which  the  deep 
purple  of  the  petalostemon  so  lately  beamed,  or 
vanish  in  the  haze  made  by  the  numerous  buds 
of  the  hazel.  Then  in  the  long,  dead  grass  that 
twines  about  the  hazel-roots  they  lie  almost  like 
stones,  taxing  the  dogs'  keenest  nose  to  find 
them.  And  though  mostly  open  shooting  over 
the  top  of  the  brush,  it  is  none  too  easy  to  clip 
the  buzzing  wing  that  often  twists  and  dodges 
long  enough  to  confuse  you,  or  comes  out  of  the 
brush  far  enough  away  to  make  quick  work 
necessary  and  then,  laughing  at  your  slowness, 
spins  down  the  prairie  gale  at  a  pace  that  leaves 
your  shot  behind  again. 

In  Minnesota  and  Wisconsin,  after  his  little 
fit  of  wandering  in  large  droves  is  over,  Bob 


24  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

White  hangs  about  the  outskirts  of  the  grove  of 
scrub  white-oak  that  holds  its  leaves  all  winter. 
For  this  he  will  often  make  all  speed,  leaving 
the  hazel  where  he  has  been  sunning  himself  to 
such  birds  as  like  it.  Whether  the  bevy  flies 
over  it,  into  it,  or  under  it,  you  may  find  some 
of  the  birds  ensconced  in  the  thick  leaves.  Per- 
haps you  know  something  of  shooting,  but  you 
are  not  fully  educated  until  you  have  tried  to 
connect  your  line  of  sight  over  the  gun  with  a 
brown  flash  through  almost  exactly  the  same 
color.  Vastly  is  the  difficulty  increased  by  the 
downward  curve  of  the  line  when  the  bird  is  in 
the  top  of  a  tree  and  darts  through  an  opening 
below.  At  other  times  it  shoots  straight  up- 
ward long  enough  to  lead  you  to  think  you  have 
caught  its  direction,  and  then,  having  cleared  the 
top  of  the  brush,  it  scuds  away  on  a  horizontal 
line  that  is  gone  glimmering  among  the  dream 
of  things  that  should  be,  before  you  can  shift 
your  gun  to  it. 

Little  better  may  you  fare  when  among  the 
dead  leaves  and  grass  along  the  ground  the  bird 
lies  hiding  scarcely  a  yard  from  the  nose  of  the 
statue  into  which  the  dog  has  suddenly  turned. 


BOB    WHITE.  25 

Drop  on  one  knee  as  quickly  as  you  will,  the 
buzzing  brown  often  fades  into  the  russet  canopy 
before  you  can  possibly  turn  the  gun  upon  it. 
Only  the  eye  of  faith  can  serve  you  now,  and 
there  must  be  no  dust  in  that.  In  such  cover  a 
double  shot  is  generally  impossible,  and  by  the 
time  you  have  made  a  few  single  shots  you  will 
say  you  have  found  about  the  hardest  shooting 
on  earth. 

In  the  West  the  sportsman  becomes  better 
acquainted  with  Bob  White  out  of  shooting 
season  than  in  the  East.  In  the  East  his  sum- 
mer call  of  "Bob  White"  ringing  over  the 
harvest  fields  and  an  occasional  glimpse  of  his 
plump  little  figure  as  he  sits  upon  some  distant 
fence  is  about  all  you  get  of  him,  unless  you  do 
as  I  have  often  done — hide  well  in  the  grass  and 
call  him  to  you  by  the  call  of  the  hen,  and  see 
him  play  around  you  in  astonishment.  But  in 
the  prairie  states  he  used  to  be  a  common  sight 
along  the  roads,  and  many  a  time  the  little 
brood  rose  with  a  soft  whiz  from  in  front  of  the 
horses  as  you  drove  along.  Often  when  the 
ferns  and  grass  of  the  prairie  were  starred  with 
the  soft  gold  of  the  lady-slipper,  while  the  mild 


26  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

purple  of  the  sabbatia  toned  down  the  brilliant 
yellow  of  the  sunflowers,  and  you  advanced  to 
the  stiff-set  dog  expecting  to  see  the  pinnated 
grouse  burst  from  before  him,  the  anxious 
mother  quail  fluttered  up  with  the  tender  notes 
that  told  of  little  ones  in  the  grass.  And  some- 
times the  white-throated  father  of  the  family 
helped  the  mother  play  lame  while  the  little 
downy  brood  hid  in  the  depths  of  the  grass 
where  neither  dog  nor  man  could  find  one  of 
them. 

Often,  too,  when  the  deep  violet  of  the  ver- 
nonia  was  fading  on  its  tall  stalk  and  the  last  of 
the  morning-glories  closing,  and  you  were  certain 
that  the  dog  had  one  of  those  wild  grouse  that 
had  flown  so  far  and  you  had  marked  so  closely, 
a  bevy  of  quail  rose  before  you  with  a  roar  of 
full-grown  wings  almost  equal  to  that  of  the 
grouse.  And  in  the  timbered  hills  where  the 
prairies  of  the  upper  Mississippi  break  into  the 
valley  of  the  great  river,  Bob  White  would  burst 
from  before  the  dog  in  the  swales  of  fern  or  be- 
neath the  yellowing  birches  when  you  were  most 
certain  that  he  had  a  ruffed  grouse.  Yet  you 
felt  no  disappointment,  and  plunged  through  the 


BOB    WHITE.  27 

thickets  of  crab-apple  after  them,  scratched  your 
way  through  the  scrub-oak,  tore  through  briers, 
and  toiled  up  the  hillside  as  eagerly  as  you 
would  for  the  largest  of  game. 

Alas,  the  days  that  are  no  more !  Time  plies 
his  whizzing  wing,  and  already  dear  Bob  is  with 
many  older  sportsmen  but  a  memory  of  the  past. 
But  what  a  tender  memory  it  is !  As  many  a 
day  we  hunted  him  without  a  gun,  and  felt  re- 
warded for  miles  of  travel  with  the  sound  of  his 
buzzing  wing,  so  now  we  have  to  hunt  in 
memory's  field,  and  in  the  recollection  of  his 
winsome  ways  find  more  pleasure  than  in  the 
actual  pursuit  of  what  the  world  deems  nobler 
game.  Farewell,  dear  Bob  ;  for  me,  at  least, 
thou  hast  made  life  worth  the  living;  and  when 
in  the  Happy  Hunting-grounds  my  eyes  open  to 
the  morning  light,  of  all  the  bright  company  I 
there  shall  hope  to  see,  to  thee,  dear  Bob,  the 
first  of  all,  they'll  turn ;  yes,  first  of  all  to  thee. 


II. 

THE  WOODCOCK. 

THOUGH  Bob  White  has  been  a  more  familiar 
spirit  because  he  spent  the  whole  year  with  us 
and  had  more  sides  to  his  lovely  nature,  there  is 
no  bird  I  have  walked  so  far  to  see  as  the  wood- 
cock in  his  own  wild  home.  What  gave  such 
charm  to  this  frail  being  I  never  knew ;  but  it  was 
not  his  fine  flavor,  or  even  the  satisfaction  of 
shooting  him,  for  I  have  hunted  the  woodcock 
almost  as  much  without  a  gun  as  with  one.  Be- 
fore the  pure  white  of  the  blood-root  illumined 
the  sodden  leaves,  almost  before  the  purling  note 
of  the  bluebird  was  heard  in  the  open,  or  the 
drum  of  the  ruffed  grouse  sounded  again  in  the 
laurel  brake,  I  used  to  roam  with  the  dog  only 
the  southern  slopes  along  the  spring  runs  and 
the  warm  open  bogs,  to  renew  acquaintance  with 
this  bird  on  his  return  from  the  South.  Where 

28 


THE    WOODCOCK.  2Q 

the  snowy  racemes  of  the  shad-bush  lit  up  the 
still  leafless  thickets,  what  a  thrill  those  little 
holes  in  the  mud  made  by  the  woodcock's  bill 
sent  through  my  soul !  How  I  hunted  often  in 
vain  by  day  to  find  the  bird  that  made  them,  and 
went  there  again  in  the  evening  to  see  him  tower 
twittering  into  the  evening  sky,  and  hear  him 
sing  his  only  song,  the  song  of  springtime  and 
love ! 

And  when  the  snowy  involucre  of  the  dogwood 
lit  up  the  darkening  halls  of  the  woods,  and  the 
liquid  tones  of  the  wood-thrush  made  the  falling 
of  night  so  sweet,  long  have  I  lingered  around 
the  place  where  I  knew  there  was  a  woodcock's 
nest.  Many  a  time  after  I  had  found  the  sitting 
bird  have  I  crawled  softly  up  on  hands  and  knees 
to  see  the  beam  of  that  dark  liquid  eye  that  has 
no  equal  elsewhere  on  earth.  How  I  watched 
for  the  little  ones  to  come,  and  reached  the  place 
early  in  the  morning  to  see  the  old  mother  rise 
with  feeble  wing,  flutter  but  a  few  feet,  and  then 
limp  along  the  grass!  How  I  searched  beneath 
every  leaf  and  bit  of  grass  until  I  found  one  of 
the  little  downy  things,  felt  more  happy  than  if 
I  had  shot  an  elephant,  and  took  more  pleasure 


30  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

in  seeing  it  run  away,  while  the  dog  eyed  it  with 
quizzical  look,  than  I  would  in  shooting  at  it  two 
or  three  months  later!  And  day  after  day  I  re- 
turned to  see  them  until  the  azalea  began  to  un- 
foid  its  pink  upon  the  hills,  and  the  fragrance  of 
the  magnolia  to  flood  the  swamps  where  its  pure 
white  shone,  until  the  scarlet  tanager  flamed  in 
the  green  of  the  maple,  and  the  rich  hues  of  the 
redstart  illumined  the  shades  of  the  hickory. 

Soon  now  my  little  friends  became  as  hard  to 
find  as  the  yellow-breasted  chat,  whose  rich  voice 
seemed  never  mute  in  the  depths  of  the  thicket. 
In  the  damp  ground  along  the  brook,  where  the 
little  "teter"  snipe  glided  so  softly  about,  and 
the  perfume  of  the  muskrat  rose  on  the  evening 
air,  I  could  find  where  their  little  bills  had  bored 
for  worms,  and  occasionally  late  in  the  evening 
could  start  the  mother  along  some  boggy  ground 
by  the  water;  but  where  were  the  young  ones  ? 

And  when  the  carol  of  the  robin  was  dying 
away  in  the  orchard,  the  music  of  the  thrush 
waning  upon  the  elm,  and  the  song  of  the  cat- 
bird growing  feebler  in  the  hedge,  how  easy  it 
was  to  find  my  little  friends  again,  and  how  swift 
they  were  upon  the  wing,  though  not  of  full  size ! 


THE    WOODCOCK.  31 

Then,  when  the  air  began  to  be  fragrant  with 
dittany  and  balm,  and  the  melancholy  monotone 
of  the  cuckoo  and  the  plaintive  squeak  of  the 
peewee  made  most  of  the  music  of  the  woods, 
what  lovelier  sight  than  that  haze  of  rosewood 
colors  circling  upward  through  the  shade  with 
whistling  wing,  and  winding  out  of  an  opening 
so  swiftly  that  eye  and  hand  were  rarely  quick 
enough  to  catch  it?  All  that  held  this  bird  was 
enchanted  ground  at  this  time  of  year.  What 
mattered  musquitoes,  or  steaming  heat,  or  cob- 
webs across  every  opening  in  the  woods,  as  long 
as  there  was  a  bit  of  damp  ground  in  the  dry 
spell  of  summer?  And  cheerfully  we  floundered 
through  sticky  mud  and  calamus  and  cat-tails  to 
see  that  long  bill  clear  their  tops  once  more,  and 
wheel  away  for  the  bank  of  willows  in  whose 
depths  it  would  surely  fade  unless  both  hand  and 
eye  were  quick  as  well  as  true. 

Later  on  the  meadows  were  aflame  with  the 
butterfly-weed,  and  the  rose-mallow  tinged  the 
marshes  with  soft  pink;  the  towering  bobolink 
no  longer  poured  a  flood  of  song,  but  clamorous 
blackbirds  began  to  gather  into  flocks.  Then 
what  a  prize  a  single  woodcock  often  seemed, 


32  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

and  how  patiently  we  beat  every  foot  of  wet 
ground  in  the  marshes,  and  explored  every 
muddy  place  the  dry  weather  had  left  in  the 
woods,  or  the  damp  spots  of  some  low  cornfield 
where  the  green  leaves  hung  yet  uncurled  by 
drouth !  How  we  wondered  where  the  woodcock 
had  gone,  and  where  lived  the  few  that  were  left ! 
The  mystery  deepened  love,  and  miles  were 
nothing  for  one  glimpse  of  that  whistling  wing. 

Yet  very  tame  seemed  all  this  beside  the  day 
when,  after  weeks  of  absence,  the  woodcock  re- 
turned full-feathered  from  the  molt.  The  song 
of  the  oriole  had  ceased  in  the  woods;  little 
creepers  stole  no  more  along  the  limbs,  hunting 
for  slugs  on  the  green  leaves;  hushed  was  the 
sprightly  twittering  of  the  wren  in  the  thicket ; 
and  the  mournful  cooing  of  the  dove  was  heard 
no  more  in  the  oak.  The  crimson  of  sumac  and 
dogwood  warmed  the  rich  hues  of  the  maples, 
and  beside  the  yellowing  beech  the  fox-grapes 
hung  blue  and  fragrant  among  leaves  of  russet 
and  gold.  The  red  sun  struggled  down  through 
smoky  air,  filling  with  dreamy  softness  the 
spangled  hillsides  and  sapling-groves  where  the 
returning  wanderer  was  to  be  welcomed  from  the 


THE    WOODCOCK.  33 

North.  Along  the  little  stream  where  the  water- 
cress was  still  green  and  the  jewel-weed  strug- 
gled yet  for  life,  those  fine  holes  bored  in  the 
mud  by  the  long  bill  sent  again  that  peculiar 
thrill  through  the  soul.  And  when  the  pattering 
of  the  dog's  feet  ceased,  and  you  found  him 
standing  rigid  where  the  sunlight  filtered  through 
half-bare  saplings,  you  felt  repaid  for  your  toil. 
But  before  you  could  get  half-way  to  the  dog, 
the  brown  would  rise  with  sharper  whistle  of 
swifter  wings  than  those  of  summer,  and,  dis- 
daining the  fine  course  you  had  selected  for  its 
flight,  wheel  suddenly  behind  the  russet  leaves 
that  still  clung  to  a  white-oak,  through  which 
your  first  barrel  spouted  vain  smoke,  and  then 
as  suddenly  whirl  around  the  golden  crown  of 
a  chestnut  before  you  could  kindle  the  fire  in 
your  second  barrel.  And  you  felt  glad  though 
mad,  happy  though  disappointed. 

In  the  West  the  woodcock  is  the  same  lovely 
and  mysterious  bird  he  is  in  the  East,  though  he 
nowhere  makes  such  autumn  shooting  as  he  once 
made  on  the  Atlantic  coast.  In  some  places  he 
vanishes  for  the  season  about  the  middle  of 
August,  in  others,  as  on  the  upper  Mississippi, 


34  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

he  stays  through  the  molting  period  and  is 
easily  found,  when  so  hard  to  find  in  the  East. 
In  the  bottoms  of  most  of  the  western  rivers, 
especially  the  Illinois,  woodcock  were  once  very 
abundant.  When  the  scarlet  of  the  cardinal- 
flower  began  to  blaze  along  the  wet  banks,  and 
the  little  grass  of  Parnassus  to  uplift  its  creamy 
petals  along  the  marshes,  the  whistling  wing 
could  be  heard  almost  anywhere  in  the  bottoms. 
Where  the  soft  blue  trumpets  of  the  mimulus 
were  reflected  in  sluggish  water  he  dodged  away 
in  a  twinkling  into  the  grove  of  willow  that  lined 
it ;  from  the  deep  shades  of  the  thickets  he 
flashed  up  into  the  canopy  of  green ;  from  the 
serried  spears  of  cat-tails  and  rushes  he  sprung  at 
midday  as  well  as  in  the  evening;  and  even  from 
the  open  edges  of  the  ponds  where  the  receding 
waters  had  stranded  the  bright  blue  spikes  of  the 
pickerel-weed  he  circled  over  the  adjoining  trees. 
But  the  best  shooting,  combining  ease  of  travel 
with  attractive  surroundings  and  healthy  air,  was 
on  the  bottoms  of  the  upper  Mississippi  before 
so  much  of  the  timber  was  cut  away,  and  when 
the  sloughs  were  clear  instead  of  muddy  and  full 
of  sawdust.  When  the  canoe  left  the  river,  it 


THE    WOODCOCK'.  35 

entered  a  new  world  as  the  paddle  sent  it  gliding 
among  fallen  trees,  around  sharp  elbows,  and 
through  swirling  eddies.  Amid  strange  fragrance 
from  a  million  flowers,  amid  the  hum  of  bees, 
gay  dragon-flies,  and  rattling  locusts,  we  wound 
along  banks  covered  with  long  grass.  Under 
masses  of  green  and  white  from  climbing  vines 
we  paddled,  under  the  waving  arms  of  giant  elms 
and  the  storm-scarred  limbs  of  aged  cottonwoods 
still  reaching  skyward  in  defiance  of  time,  by 
little  open  bays  where  towered  the  arrowy  shafts 
of  the  wild  rice,  and  blackbirds  rose  in  roaring 
flocks,  and  the  wood-duck  with  dolorous  Wee-wce- 
wee-wee  sought  safety  in  the  air,  while  the  little 
yellow  brood  went  flapping  to  the  reeds  for 
shelter.  All  seemed  so  full  of  life :  the  broad 
head  of  the  maple  brightly  pictured  in  the  still 
water  over  which  the  canoe  was  gliding;  the 
gray  squirrel,  with  bushy  tail  outspread,  taking 
his  midday  rest ;  the  wild  pigeon,  like  an  arrow 
feathered  with  white  and  gray,  hissing  with  speed 
through  the  openings;  dark  shining  turtles  slip- 
ping with  soft  splash  from  the  driftwood ;  little 
nut-hatches  stealing  along  the  limbs  above  and 
reaching  down  to  pick  off  slugs ;  and  the  king- 


$  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

fisher  springing  his  noisy  rattle  on  the  dead  limb 
or  darting  into  the  water. 

Woodcock  were  plenty  here,  for  feeding- 
grounds  were  everywhere,  while  on  much  of  the 
dry  ridges  was  the  best  kind  of  cover.  One 
place  was  almost  as  good  as  another.  Where  the 
deep  blue  of  the  lobelia  was  nodding  over  some 
damp  shore,  a  bird  was  as  apt  to  spring  at  midday 
as  in  the  solemn  shade  of  the  swamp-maples  and 
oaks,  where  grass  could  hardly  struggle  through 
the  gloom.  One  might  be  in  the  long  grass  that 
around  some  fallen  tree-top  on  the  higher  ground 
wound  upward  to  the  light  through  the  garlands 
of  white  and  green  the  wild  cucumber  wove  over 
the  dead  limbs.  And  out  from  behind  it  he 
might  skim  low  and  wheel  around  the  next  tree 
so  quickly  that  all  you  would  know  of  the  bird's 
presence  would  be  the  whistle  of  its  wings. 

Often  the  rustling  of  the  dog  would  cease 
before  we  had  moored  the  boat,  and  we  would 
find  him  but  a  few  yards  away,  with  nose  pro- 
jecting from  the  reeds  along  some  muddy  shore. 
Where  the  red  flowers  of  the  knot-grass  nodded 
over  the  snowy  petals  of  the  water-lily  left  by 
the  receding  water  we  might  see,  scarce  a  yard 


THE    WOODCOCK.  37 

from  the  dog's  nose,  sitting  on  the  mud,  the  bird 
we  had  come  to  find.  Perhaps  fresh  mud  was 
on  his  bill  from  the  numerous  small  holes  around 
him  where  he  had  been  breakfasting  late.  His 
strangely-shaped  head  was  drawn  back  until  its 
rich  colors  blended  with  the  rosewood  hues  of 
the  back,  and  the  deep,  tender  eye  was  quizzing 
us  with  sublime  indifference  to  the  dog.  And 
when  with  spiral  twist  he  whirled  into  the  bank 
of  leaves  over  our  heads  before  we  could  turn 
around,  and  nothing  but  leaves  and  dead  sticks 
responded  to  the  fierce  volley  we  opened  upon 
him,  we  still  felt  glad  we  had  not  shot  at  him  on 
the  ground. 

Again,  when  we  would  miss  the  dog,  we  might 
find  him  only  by  the  quivering  tip  of  his  tail  pro- 
jecting from  a  thick  mat  of  reeds  beside  some 
heavy  timber  into  which  the  brown  wings  would 
fade  in  speed  that  left  us  no  time  to  take  aim. 
i  Yet  we  followed  the  line  with  memory's  eye,  and 
fancied  there  was  a  gentle  fall  of  something  soft 
amid  the  leaves  and  twigs  that  followed  the  shot. 
And  sometimes  we  found  our  dog  in  a  dense 
clump  of  saplings,  with  one  forefoot  on  a  fallen 
log  he  was  about  to  cross  when  he  caught  the 


365119 


38  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

scent,  and  standing  as  solid  as  the  log  itself. 
Once  with  soft  twitter  a  cock  rose  a  few  feet  in 
air  as  we  came  up,  and  made  so  sudden  a  turn 
there  was  no  time  to  fire.  Not  thirty  feet  from 
where  it  rose  it  alighted  on  the  ground,  and  with 
drooping  wings  and  tail  erect  strutted  along  for 
several  yards  like  a  turkey-gobbler,  with  the  dog 
pacing  solemnly  behind  it  at  a  safe  distance,  sur- 
prised at  this  peculiar  action,  which  is  so  rare  that 
many  sportsmen  and  many  dogs  have  never  seen 
it. 

Two  or  three  hours  on  pleasant  days  would 
generally  give  one  all  the  shooting  a  reasonable 
being  should  want.  It  grew  better  toward  even- 
ing, and  the  homeward  trip  was  ever  a  pleasure. 
The  night-heron  flapped  his  solemn  way  in  the 
air  above,  and  the  deep  Too-Jwo  of  the  great 
owl  resounded  through  the  darkening  green  that 
lined  the  slough.  The  smooth  surface  of  the 
river  glimmered  long  after  sunset,  with  crimson 
and  gold  reflected  from  the  fleecy  clouds  above. 
Far  up  and  down  the  Minnesota  side  the  bluffs 
lay  darkly  blue,  while  on  the  Wisconsin  side  they 
held  a  long,  lingering  trace  of  pink  as  if  unwilling 
to  let  go  of  day.  Long  pickerel  shone  as  they 


THE    WOODCOCK.  39 

threw  themselves  in  air  and  sank  with  a  splash 
into  the  water;  night-hawks  by  the  score  pitched 
here  and  there  over  the  water ;  bands  of  ducks 
went  hissing  by ;  and  from  both  shores  rolled 
across  the  waters  the  rich  but  mournful  voice  of 
the  whippoorwill. 

Woodcock-shooting  on  these  bottom-lands  at 
high  water  is  the  very  climax  of  shooting  with 
the  shot-gun.  In  most  sections  heavy  rains  or 
floods  scatter  woodcock  and  make  them  harder  to 
find.  But  on  the  upper  Mississippi  it  is  the 
reverse,  as  the  birds  never  go  in  numbers  to  any 
timber  but  that  in  the  bottoms.  When  there  is 
a  heavy  flood,  about  the  time  the  birds  are  the 
most  plenty  and  about  four  fifths  of  the  bottoms 
are  submerged,  leaving  the  remainder  a  network 
of  islands  and  peninsulas,  among  which  you  may 
paddle  anywhere  with  a  light  boat,  the  birds  are 
concentrated  on  the  dry  spots.  Half  the  time 
the  dog  does  not  await  the  landing  of  the  skiff, 
but  with  head  reaching  over  the  bow,  and  tip  of 
tail  quivering  almost  in  your  face,  he  stands  rigid 
as  you  could  wish  before  the  keel  scrapes  the 
ground.  Sometimes  he  springs  but  half-way  out, 
stopping  with  fore  legs  in  the  water  and  hind  legs 


40  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME 

in  the  boat;  and  sometimes  he  springs  from  it, 
but  stands  anchored  in  his  tracks  where  he 
strikes  the  water.  And  birds  are  often  springing 
before  he  leaves  the  boat. 

Before  you  have  firm  anchorage  for  your  feet 
three  or  four  woodcock  may  spring  from  the  grass 
and  driftwood  on  the  shore,  and  start  on  varied 
curves  for  as  many  points  of  the  compass.  When 
you  reach  the  land  you  can  hardly  make  the  dog 
move  ahead,  and  about  the  time  you  think  him 
too  cautious  he  comes  to  a  sudden  stop.  Two 
brown  twittering  lines  wheel  right  and  left  in 
front  of  him  ;  but  when  with  extra  quickness  you 
send  one  to  earth  and  the  other  to  the  water,  and 
you  think  the  dog  ought  to  be  proud  of  your 
work,  he  merely  turns  his  nose,  first  to  the  right, 
then  to  the  left,  then  to  the  right  again.  Before 
you  can  take  a  step  ahead,  or  even  load  your 
gun,  away  whistles  a  cock  on  the  right,  another 
on  the  left,  and  another  from  in  front,  with  two 
or  three  more  curling  out  of  some  grass-covered 
drift  ahead  ;  and,  before  you  or  the  dog  can  reach 
either  of  the  two  that  fell,  half  a  dozen  more  are 
twisting  in  as  many  directions.  And  so  you  may 
go  on  from  island  to  island,  with  the  dog  not 


THE    WOODCOCK.  41 

even   walking,    but   merely   crawling  about    and 
every  few  minutes  stiffening  into  a  point. 

The  birds,  however,  are  now  wilder  than  usual, 
and  seeing  dozens  by  no  means  implies  a  shower 
of  woodcock.  Many  rise  far  ahead  of  the  dog, 
and  before  you  can  come  within  thirty  yards  of 
him.  Many  lie  in  the  edge  of  the  timber,  and 
wheel  away  upward  while  you  are  inside,  or  curl 
around  the  outer  edge.  Some  twist  upward 
through  the  tree-tops  and  then  spin  away  on  a 
straight  line ;  some  whisk  away  so  near  the 
ground,  the  brown  line  of  their  flight  is  hard  to 
distinguish  amid  the  grass  and  flowers;  others 
bustle  out  of  sight  in  a  twinkling  through  some 
dense  thicket ;  while  of  others  you  see  nothing 
and  only  hear  the  mellow  whistle  of  their  wing- 
feathers. 

Who  could  help  missing  under  such  circum- 
stances? Here  goes  a  bird  across  an  open  space 
only  twenty-five  yards  away.  Clearly  you  see 
the  rich  brown  robes,  and  the  iron  rib  of  the  gun 
seems  pointing  just  the  right  distance  ahead  of 
the  long  bill.  How  cool  you  feel,  and  what  ex- 
pectation is  crowded  into  one  short  moment ! 
You  pull  the  trigger,  and  the  brown  whistles  on 


42  GAME-BIRDS  A  T  HOME. 

without  wavering  or  shedding  a  feather.  What 
wonder?  What  nerves  would  not  flutter  when  a 
fresh  bird  bustles  out  of  the  grass  as  you  start  to 
pick  up  a  fallen  one  and,  killing  the  new  one,  see 
the  dog  point  still  another  before  he  or  you  can 
reach  either  of  the  two  that  have  fallen,  and  then 
have  a  couple  more  spring  right  and  left  before 
you  can  reach  the  dog?  The  finger  will  some- 
times betray  one  and  pull  the  trigger,  when  the 
eye  plainly  sees  the  gun  is  not  pointing  right, 
and  sometimes  it  will  tremble  and  balk  upon  the 
trigger  and  disobey  the  will  to  pull  at  the  right 
time.  Often,  when  a  quick  shot  is  necessary,  the 
gun  fails  to  come  to  the  right  place  when  first 
raised ;  there  is  no  time  to  shift  it,  and  it  is  too 
late  to  recall  the  order  from  the  brain  to  the 
finger.  And  often  when  tossed  up  at  a  crossing 
bird  it  comes  directly  on  the  mark  instead  of 
ahead,  and  the  temptation  to  pull  the  trigger 
without  shifting  the  gun  ahead  is  irresistible. 
And  often  the  gun  strikes  an  unseen  branch,  or, 
when  wheeling  suddenly  with  loaded  pockets,  one 
is  thrown  out  of  balance  and  cannot  recover  in 
time.  These  and  a  dozen  other  causes,  above 
all  that  mysterious  "bad  spell"  which  often 


THE    WOODCOCK.  43 

attacks  the  best  shots,  make  it  impossible  for  any 
one  to  shoot  without  many  a  miss.  Thanks  to 
human  infirmity  that  it  is  so!  Were  shooting 
as  easy  as  often  pictured,  the  pleasure  of  the  gun 
would  be  gone. 


III. 

THE   RUFFED    GROUSE. 

WHO  can  forget  the  feelings  with  which  he 
first  heard  the  mysterious  drum  of  the  ruffed 
grouse  throb  through  the  bursting  woods  of 
spring,  or  later  from  the  dark  mountain-side 
where  the  soft  pink  and  white  of  the  rhododen- 
dron light  up  the  dark  jungle  of  its  leaves,  or 
where  the  leaves  are  falling  through  the  haze  of 
Indian  Summer,  or,  as  sometimes  heard  even  in 
the  noon  of  night,  in  the  depths  of  the  great 
forest  ?  And  who  ever  failed  to  love  him  from 
the  moment  he  first  caught  a  glimpse  of  his 
fanlike  tail  as  the  graceful  bird  flashed  amid  a 
maze  of  crimson  and  gold,  or  pierced  like  a  shaft 
of  light  the  green  tangle  of  the  cat-brier  swamp  ? 
And  who  does  not  feel  that  he  has  lived  when, 
after  many  vain  shots,  he  sees  the  brown  wings 
come  whirling  out  of  the  leaves  through  which 

44 


THE  RUFFED    GROUSE.  45 

they  were  roaring  at  a  speed  that  has  no  equal 
among  birds  of  the  woods? 

Every  place  this  bird  honors  with  its  presence 
is  attractive.  Where,  in  the  little  glen  from 
which  the  interlacing  heads  of  the  elm  and  the 
mapie  have  cut  off  the  sunlight,  racemes  of  little 
rosy  flowers  hang  from  the  green  leaves  of  the 
enchanter's  nightshade,  where  the  air  is  laden 
with  the  fragrance  of  crab-apple  and  wild  plum 
mingled  with  soft  sweetness  from  the  berries  of 
the  viburnum,  beneath  the  dark  hemlock  where 
the  little  red  berries  of  the  wintergreen  shine  in 
the  gloom,  or  where  the  scarlet  torch  of  the 
ginseng  lights  up  the  dim  corridors  of  the  forest, 
the  sportsman  loves  ever  to  linger. 

Some  unseen  spirit  captures  the  old  dog,  and 
his  canter  settles  to  a  slow  trot  when  he  enters 
the  ground  where  this  grouse  is  likely  to  be. 
How  impressive  the  patter  of  his  feet  on  the 
dead  leaves,  and  the  occasional  glimpse  you  catch 
of  him  slowly  moving  through  the  twigs !  And 
what  a  moment  is  that  when  you  hear  a  fainter 
rustling  and  see  him  moving  still  more  slowly, 
with  more  slowly-waving  tail !  You  know  he 
must  stop  on  the  outer  edge  of  the  circle  of  cer- 


46  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

tainty  and  not  try  to  catch  the  scent  too  warm, 
or  a  roar  of  wings  and  distant  flash  of  brown, 
too  short  to  shoot  at,  will  be  all  you  see  or  hear. 
But  right  well  an  old  dog  knows  his  business, 
and  you  find  him  perhaps  rigid  beside  a  log  or 
little  brook  he  dares  not  cross.  And  then,  how 
arc  you  to  get  a  shot  ?  The  maple  is  flaming 
beside  the  pale  gold  of  the  birch,  and  the  bright 
red  of  the  dogwood  vies  with  the  russet  of  the 
oak  in  barring  the  path  of  your  vision.  The 
scarlet  of  the  cockspur-thorn  yet  robes  its  matted 
arms,  and  the  yellow  leaves  of  the  aspen  tremble 
on  its  white  trunk.  How  in  such  a  maze  of 
color  do  you  expect  to  catch  that  glimpse  of 
white  and  brown  that  for  an  instant  only  will 
mark  the  path  of  a  bird  to  which  all  thickets  are 
as  smooth  a  path  as  the  blue  of  space  to  the 
sunbeam  ? 

Before  you  come  within  twenty  feet  of  your 
dog  there  is  a  heavy  Bbbbbbbbbbbbbb  some  ten 
yards  ahead  of  him,  a  whisk  of  brown,  a  scatter- 
ing of  dry  leaves  beneath  it.  In  a  twinkling  you 
drop  on  one  knee  and  toss  the  gun  to  your 
shoulder. 

And  is  that  all  ? 


THE  RUFFED    GROUSE.  47 

Well,  is  not  that  worth  coming  to  see  ?  One 
who  does  not  feel  that  little  toil  repaid  with  even 
a  glimpse  of  this  royal  game  would  not  appreciate 
closer  acquaintance. 

You  are  in  heavier  cover  than  is  necessary  now. 
When  the  autumn  rains  have  tattered  the  drapery 
of  these  thickets  you  may  see  something  long 
enough  to  shoot  at  it,  but  now  you  had  better  go 
where  it  is  more  open.  Let  us  leave  this  heavy 
cover  and  cross  this  meadow  where  the  bluejoint 
waves  yet  green  and  above  the  falling  clover  the 
tender  purple  of  the  calopogon  nods.  Where 
under  arcades  of  alder  the  swift  brook  gurgles 
through  grassy  banks  you  shall  find  the  groves 
of  plum  and  thorn  more  open. 

Bub — bub — bub — bub — bubbubbubbubbbbbbbbbbb 
sounds  already  from  the  distant  thicket,  for  here 
upon  the  upper  Mississippi  the  ruffed  grouse 
drums  often  in  the  warm  days  of  fall,  and  its 
strange  beat  quickens  your  pace. 

Scarcely  does  the  dog  reach  the  outer  edge  of 
the  thicket  when  he  seems  suddenly  weary,  his 
legs  drag,  and  his  tail  becomes  straighter.  He 
pauses  for  a  moment  beneath  the  crimson  of  the 
sumac,  and  then  with  delicate  sniffs  of  upraised 


48  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

nose  moves  a  few  feet  and  comes  to  a  full  stop. 
There  is  a  heavy  Bbbbbbbbbbb  in  the  thicket  as 
you  approach  the  dog,  and  a  broad  white  breast 
with  wide  dashes  of  jet  surrounded  by  a  soft 
haze  of  brown  wings  in  rapid  stroke  mounts  into 
the  sunlight  above  the  thicket.  Where  a  prettier 
mark  than  the  outspread  tail  it  turns  to  you  as  it 
wheels  with  its  bands  of  brown  and  black  and  its 
tender  shades  of  gray,  steering  the  majestic  bird 
on  its  swift-winding  way  ?  And  what  a  strange 
mixture  of  exultation  and  pride  with  regret  you 
feel  when  out  of  a  cloud  of  feathers  it  descends 
at  the  report  of  your  gun  to  the  spangled  covert 
below ! 

But  there  is  no  time  to  indulge  in  feelings,  for 
at  the  report  of  your  gun  out  comes  another 
roaring  mark  with  little  topknot  erect  on  out- 
stretched head,  black  ruffs  laid  back,  and  aimed 
for  the  thicket  you  left  but  a  moment  ago.  Plain 
open  sailing;  and  how  confident  you  feel  as  you 
raise  the  gun !  Beware,  beware !  Do  you  not 
see  the  white  scales  of  the  immortelles  tremble, 
and  even  the  purple  corolla  of  the  iron-weed  bow 
in  the  breeze  made  by  the  resounding  wings  of 
the  swift  rover  as  it  skims  their  tops  ?  Hold  far 


THE  RUFFED    GROUSE.  49 

ahead,  for  all  too  deceptive  is  that  graceful 
speed. 

At  the  sound  of  your  first  barrel  a  tail-feather 
comes  whiffling  down  into  the  glowing  top  of  a 
goldenrod,  but  only  the  faster  does  the  grouse 
dash  the  sunshine  from  its  obstreperous  wing. 
•Bang-goes  the  second  barrel,  aimed  farther  ahead, 
but  not  a  plume  of  the  outspread  fan  is  folded, 
the  graceful  head  seems  only  stretched  out  a 
little  farther,  the  black  ruffs  glisten  but  the  more. 
In  a  moment  the  whole  is  but  a  haze  of  brown 
above  which  two  curving  wings  are  suddenly  set, 
while  it  plunges  into  the  densest  part  of  the 
thicket  as  easily  as  a  meteor  into  the  night. 

Few  of  those  who  love  this  bird  have  seen  him 
before  he  has  left  his  mother's  side  to  roam  alone 
the  mountain's  breast  or  the  tangled  glen.  For 
his  cradle  is  deep  in  the  heart  of  summer's  wealth, 
and  few  are  the  eyes  that  can  follow  him  into  the 
dark  brake  or  the  shaggy  robe  of  the  mountain 
until  frosts  have  rent  the  gay  canopy  and  scat- 
tered the  fragments  to  the  ground.  But  in  the 
bluffs  of  the  upper  Mississippi  this  grouse  was 
easily  found  in  summer,  especially  after  the 
coveys  were  big  enough  to  fly,  and  they  used 


50  GAME-BIRDS  A  T  HOME. 

often  to  make  fine  shooting  before  any  hues  of 
death  had  touched  the  timber  that  studded  the 
hills.  These  bluffs  were  about  four  hundred  feet 
above  the  slope  of  the  bottom-lands  and  benches 
at  their  feet,  and  not  too  steep  for  hunting. 
About  half-way  up  their  sides,  and  in  the  heads 
of  the  gulches  that  cut  them  in  all  directions,  was 
the  home  of  this  grouse.  Often  he  went  to  the 
top  where  a  stubble  bordered  the  timber  at  the 
head  of  a  ravine;  and  many  a  time,  in  the  cool 
evening  of  August  or  September,  when  we  thought 
the  dog  was  pointing  the  pinnated  grouse  for 
which  we  wrere  hunting,  a  full-grown  covey  of 
the  ruffed  grouse  has  sprung  on  uproarious  wing 
and  vanished  in  the  shade  of  the  oaks  and  birches. 
On  hot  days  it  was  not  uncommon  to  find  the 
pinnated  grouse  half-way  down  the  bluffs,  seeking 
the  shade  of  their  steep  sides,  and  often  the  two 
kinds  of  grouse  were  so  mixed  that  either  might 
spring  before  the  dog.  Once  in  a  while  Bob 
White  lent  his  charming  company,  and  until  the 
bird  rose  you  could  not  tell  on  what  the  dog 
was  pointing.  In  the  oak  openings  on  the  bench- 
lands  of  the  Wisconsin  rivers  this  same  mixture 


THE  RUFFED    GROUSE.  5  I 

might  often  be  seen  in  September  and  even  later, 
but  nowhere  else  have  I  known  it. 

My  first  hunt  on  these  bluffs  was  in  August, 
1867.  From  near  the  foot  of  the  bluffs  where 
the  maple  and  oak  saplings  began  to  encroach 
upon  the  older  timber  of  the  hills  to  near  the  top 
where  from  its  white  staff  the  birch  was  flying  its 
banner  of  brilliant  green,  two  dogs  were  racing  to 
and  fro.  We  soon  came  to  a  ravine  where  the 
ferns  and  prairie-grass  were  ranker  and  the  shade 
deeper.  Jack,  the  elder  dog,  at  once  started  up 
the  leeward  side  of  the  ravine  on  a  cautious  trot. 
This  soon  subsided  to  a  walk  as  he  caught  the 
breeze  that  played  across  the  hollow.  Quietly 
he  moved  along,  hidden  in  the  ferns'  deep  green 
except  his  upraised  nose  and  the  line  of  his  back 
and  tail.  Through  the  golden  wealth  of  the  lady- 
slipper  he  kept  slowly  on  until  his  legs  began  to 
stiffen  and  his  tail  to  lose  its  oscillation.  And  as 
he  stopped  there  was  a  burst  of  brown  from  the 
ferns  some  ten  yards  ahead  of  him. 

Bang,  whang,  went  my  gun  and  my  friend's 
gun  almost  together;  a  feather  parted  from  the 
outspread  fan  behind  the  boisterous  wings,  and 
in  a  second  more  it  had  faded  behind  the  trees. 


$2  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

Bbbbbb  went  another  from  almost  the  same 
place  before  the  first  bird  was  out  of  sight — only 
a  trifle  smaller,  but  quite  as  swift  of  wing.  Bang 
went  the  second  barrel  of  both  guns  exactly  to- 
gether, and  a  cloud  of  feathers  puffed  from  the 
bird  which  came  whirling  downward,  while  with 
huge  hubbub  seven  or  eight  more  birds  rose 
curling,  darting,  and  whizzing  from  the  ferns  in 
all  directions. 

But  Jack  seemed  to  have  little  anxiety  about 
the  birds  that  had  fallen,  and  after  moving  care- 
fully a  few  feet  stopped  again,  with  the  other 
dog,  named  Frank,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
ravine  watching  him,  with  legs  almost  as  firm,  and 
tail  but  slightly  waving.  Right  well  Jack  seemed 
to  know  that  all  the  flock  had  not  risen ;  for  it 
was  a  common  trick  in  those  days  for  part  of  the 
flock  to  trust  to  hiding  even  after  the  old  one 
and  most  of  the  young  ones  had  flown.  Jack 
swung  off  a  few  feet  to  get  in  the  direct  line  of 
the  scent  again,  and  then  with  nose  high  in  air 
and  body  sunk  in  the  grass  he  came  to  a  stand- 
still. From  the  ferns  some  thirty  feet  ahead 
three  grouse  started  in  different  directions.  One 
had  scarcely  aired  his  wings  when  he  went  whirl- 


THE  RUFFED   GROUSE.  53 

ing  into  the  green  below;  another  changed  his 
course  at  the  report  of  another  barrel  and  mounted 
skyward  through  the  tree-tops ;  the  third  seemed 
to  leave  a  hole  in  space  with  another  barrel  flam- 
ing vainly  into  the  empty  hole ;  while  the  bird 
that  had  mounted  above  the  trees  poised  for  a 
second  on  high,  then  closed  his  wings  and  de- 
scended with  a  heavy  bump  to  earth. 

The  fallen  birds  retrieved,  we  went  to  find  the 
scattered  members  of  the  flock.  Some  three 
hundred  yards  we  wandered  through  checkered 
shades  when  Frank  began  to  dawdle  in  his  pace. 
He  sniffed  inquiringly  at  the  breeze  that  played 
along  the  hillside.  To  us  it  was  laden  only  with 
the  fragrance  of  ferns  and  clover,  wild  buckwheat 
and  peas,  with  late  wild-rose  and  mint,  but  the 
dog  smelt  something  more,  for  suddenly  he 
stopped,  and  at  the  same  instant  a  bird  broke  the 
green  cover  some  fifteen  yards  ahead  of  him. 
Two  charges  of  shot  shivered  the  tremulous  green 
of  the  birch  behind  which  it  disappeared,  the  air 
throbbed  no  more  beneath  its  wings,  a  nebula  of 
fine  feathers  drifted  into  sight. 

Up  and  down  the  hill  both  dogs  were  again 
soon  beating  the  ground.  In  about  five  minutes 


54  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

Jack,  coming  down  the  hill  on  a  gentle  canter, 
dropped  as  suddenly  as  if  shot  and  lay  with  only 
the  tip  of  his  nose  above  the  grass.  As  we  came 
up,  a  grouse  started  like  a  rocket  from  a  yard 
ahead  of  him  and  whizzed  upward  as  if  bound  for 
the  stars.  My  friend's  first  barrel  abbreviated 
the  broad  tail,  and  he  caught  the  body  with  the 
second  as,  high  among  the  branches  of  an  aged 
oak,  it  was  speeding  its  bobtailed  career.  As  it 
fell  another  bustled  out  of  almost  the  very  spot 
from  which  the  last  one  rose,  and  cleft  the  breeze 
so  fast  that  the  shot  from  my  gun  was  held  back 
by  the  air-waves  from  its  rapid  wings.  (At  least 
that  was  my  theory  then,  and  if  good  enough  for 
me  it  is  good  enough  for  any  reader.  It  doesn't 
do  to  be  too  particular  about  some  things.) 

Some  ten  minutes  passed,  and  we  found  Frank 
standing  like  a  rock  in  the  head  of  a  ravine,  with 
Jack  some  thirty  yards  away,  indorsing  with  his 
most  statuesque  attitude  Frank's  draft  on  our 
confidence.  The  aspen  was  trembling  above 
him,  the  ferns  gently  swaying  in  the  breeze  around 
his  nose,  the  blackberries  and  raspberries  were 
still  bright  on  the  bushes  in  the  deep  shade,  but 
other  sign  of  life  was  none.  We  threw  in  stones, 


THE  RUFFED    GROUSE.  55 

but  nothing  moved.  We  then  tried  to  make  one 
of  the  dogs  flush  the  game,  but  neither  would 
move  an  inch.  At  the  risk  of  losing  a  shot  I 
went  in,  for  the  ravine  was  steep-sided  and  deep. 
A  few  feet  ahead  of  the  dog  I  slipped  and  fell, 
and  in  a  twinkling  the  air  above  seemed  alive  with 
spinning  lines  of  white  and  whizzing  belts  of 
black  and  brown  mixed  in  a  whirl  that  made  the 
air  tremble  even  more  than  my  companion's  gun 
that  was  spouting  fire  over  my  head.  I  sprung 
to  my  feet  too  late  to  catch  the  fire  of  his  second 
barrel  in  my  ear,  but  just  in  time  to  see  two 
grouse  vanishing  through  two  distant  openings 
in  the  heavy  foliage.  Both  were  almost  out  of 
shot,  and  to  catch  either  at  the  speed  it  was  going 
called  for  marvelous  quickness.  How  I  unloaded 
a  barrel  of  my  gun  at  each  before  I  had  fairly 
caught  my  feet  is  a  question  on  which  I  have 
ever  remained  in  blissful  ignorance.  And  you, 
dear  reader,  must  remain  in  blissful  ignorance  of 
the  results,  for  as  a  matter  of  pure  business  I  can- 
not afford  to  imperil  my  reputation  for  veracity 
by  telling  you. 

The   grouse   were   soon   so   scattered   that   we 
went  in  search  of  a  new  flock,  which  was  then 


$6  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

cheaper  than  hunting  birds  too  widely  dispersed. 
So  we  moved  along  several  hundred  yards  and 
came  to  a  little  valley.  Near  its  head  the  oaks 
stood  larger  and  closer  than  before,  the  ferns 
were  longer,  brighter,  and  greener,  the  birches 
taller  and  thicker,  and  so  were  the  maples  and 
aspens  that  were  crowding  them  aside.  A  soft 
flavor  of  wild  honey  and  thyme  with  dittany  and 
mint  breathed  through  the  cool  shades,  and  every- 
thing seemed  to  hint  strongly  of  ruffed  grouse. 
So  strongly  did  the  spirit  of  the  place  whisper 
"  grouse  "  that  Jack  was  on  a  half-point  from  the 
start,  just  as  many  a  good  old  dog  changes  his 
pace  the  instant  he  enters  a  damp  dark  swamp 
where  everything  breathes  the  magic  word 
"  woodcock."  And  even  Frank  seemed  en- 
thralled by  the  deep  shade  and  threaded  the 
bowers  of  birch  and  beds  of  fern  with  more  than 
usual  care. 

But  vainly  the  dogs  sneaked  and  sniffed  here 
and  there.  The  birds  seemed  playing  the  trick 
of  all  game  in  ignoring  the  fine  places  you  select 
for  it,  and  preferring  to  make  its  own  selection. 
Lower  down  the  little  valley  were  thickets  of 
crab-apple  and  wild  plum  with  hazel,  viburnum, 


THE  RVFFED    GROUSE.  57 

and  hawthorn ;  and  knowing  the  grouse  range 
low  as  well  as  high  along  these  hills,  we  went 
there.  In  the  dense  green  the  dogs  soon  dis- 
appeared ;  nothing  but  the  light  rustling  of  their 
feet  remained,  and  in  a  few  minutes  even  that 
ceased. 

Leaving  my  friend  on  the  outside  where  he 
would  be  apt  to  get  a  shot  I  went  inside  the 
thicket.  There  was  one  dog  with  tail  and  nose 
nearly  parallel,  as  he  had  thrown  himself  into  the 
shape  of  a  bow  with  sudden  whirl,  and  the  other 
stood  a  few  yards  behind  with  the  solemnity 
of  a  tombstone  on  a  winter  night.  Before  I 
could  reach  the  foremost  dog  there  was  a  be- 
wildering racket  of  wings,  and  a  dozen  big  birds 
went  darkling  through  the  green  or  wheeling  out 
of  the  top.  Quickly  as  I  had  killed  the  last  two 
birds — confound  it !  I  didn  t  mean  to  let  that 
out — well,  that  quickly  I  dropped  on  one  knee 
and  sent  a  charge  of  shot  through  the  leaves 
where  a  fanlike  tail  was  vanishing  on  a  sharp 
curve.  The  mainspring  must  have  been  tired 
with  the  last  effort,  for  the  hammer  was  slow  in 
falling  and  the  shot  rather  slow  about  reaching 
the  game.  But  dimly  through  an  opening  I 


5  8  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

could  see  my  friend  on  the  hillside  with  half  a 
dozen  grouse  driving  swiftly  toward  him.  One 
shot  past  him  like  an  arrow  feathered  with  white 
and  brown,  gone  before  he  could  raise  his  gun ; 
another  at  the  report  of  his  first  barrel  went  spin- 
ning by  with  unruffled  feather,  with  the  rest  roar- 
ing beside  him  and  over  him,  while  he  stood 
shifting  his  gun  from  one  to  the  other,  and  finally 
emptied  it  with  great  success  into  a  patch  of  sun- 
shine among  the  trees  after  it  had  closed  over 
the  last  wide-spread  tail. 

Probably  the  deepest  love  one  acquires  for  this 
bird  is  in  threading  the  depths  of  the  forest  in 
still-hunting.  A  more  charming  companion  than 
the  grouse  there  makes  it  is  hard  to  find.  On 
the  warm  still  days  of  autumn,  when  you  have  to 
move  with  great  caution  on  account  of  the  dry 
leaves  and  twigs  making  so  much  noise  to  alarm 
deer,  this  lovely  bird  is  often  around  you  from 
morning  till  night.  If  careful  you  may  often  see 
him,  mounted  on  a  log  or  low  limb  or  even  on 
the  ground,  beat  that  mysterious  drum  that  sends 
so  strange  a  thrill  through  the  sportsman,  and 
makes  so  many  wonder  how  it  is  done.  And 
when  at  dawn  you  thread  the  long  colonnades  of 


THE  RUFFED    GROUSE.  59 

gray  trunks  before  even  the  squirrel  comes  out 
to  play,  or  the  bluejay  tunes  his  jingling  pipe,  or 
the  dark  form  of  the  raven  wheels  above  the 
trees,  the  grouse  may  spread  his  tail  along  your 
path  and  scatter  the  dry  leaves  beneath  his  re- 
verberating wings.  Where  the  wild  cherry  and 
choke-berry  line  the  little  boggy  flat,  where  the 
cubs  have  rolled  down  the  ferns,  and  the  old 
mother  bear  has  turned  over  the  fallen  log  for 
grubs,  you  may  see  your  friend  mount  on  defiant 
wing  and  wind  swiftly  out  of  sight  among  the 
dense  wealth  of  basswoods  and  maples.  Often 
when  you  are  sitting  on  the  sunny  side  of  some 
fallen  log  where  the  spikenard  spreads  its  broad 
umbels  of  spicy  black  berries,  or  watching  for 
some  imaginary  buck  beside  some  runway  where 
the  trailing  arbutus  keeps  the  ground  green  with 
its  ever-bright  leaves,  the  grouse  may  come  walk- 
ing beside  you,  in  all  the  majesty  of  its  pure 
innocence,  if  you  keep  perfectly  still. 

Dull  seem  the  woods  without  this  happy  soul. 
When  dank  and  sodden  from  the  storm,  and  a 
cheerless  wind  sighs  through  the  boughs,  the 
scores  of  grouse  that  on  the  last  warm  day  so 
enlivened  the  forest  are  suddenly  gone,  and  very 


60  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

lonely  are  the  woods.  And  when  the  witch- 
hazel's  curious  petals  of  gold  have  closed  the 
floral  procession  of  the  year,  and  the  scarlet  head 
of  the  mountain  ash  is  turning  pale,  when  the 
crimson  and  white  of  the  woodpecker  flash  no 
more  in  wavy  flight,  and  the  barking  of  the 
squirrel  is  seldom  heard,  then  this  bird  yet  re- 
mains the  still-hunter's  companion.  And  after 
the  woods  are  robed  in  purest  white,  and  the 
bushy-footed  hare  has  turned  his  coat  to  suit 
the  fashion,  when  trees  snap  with  frost,  and  the 
porcupine,  rolled  in  a  fuzzy  ball,  rides  out  the 
storm  in  the  top  of  some  giant  elm,  the  grouse 
is  still  there,  though  you  may  see  him  only  as  he 
bursts  from  the  snow  almost  beneath  your  feet 
and,  dashing  the  glittering  flakes  from  resounding 
wing,  mounts  gayly  into  the  sunshine  on  his  way 
to  some  distant  tree-top. 


IV. 

THE   PINNATED   GROUSE. 

No  bird  ever  lent  greater  charm  to  its  surround- 
ings than  the  pinnated  grouse  to  the  prairie.  He 
has  been  to  it  more  than  Bob  White  to  the  frosty 
stubble,  or  the  woodcock  to  the  tangled  brake. 
Without  him  it  is  no  more  the  prairie,  but  only 
a  dismal  waste.  No  sound  ever  wakes  more 
tender  feelings  than  the  far-reaching  "  Woo — woo 
— woo — woo — woo"  swelling  from  the  distant 
knoll  before  the  soft  blue  of  the  liverwort  beams 
beside  the  fading  snow-bank  in  the  timber,  or 
the  clatonia  lights  the  darkness  of  the  burnt 
prairie.  No  bird  has  so  thrilled  the  novice  as 
the  full-grown  grouse  roaring  out  of  the  grass 
almost  at  his  feet,  or  caused  him  such  infinite 
amazement  when  in  sublime  confidence  he  pulled 
the  trigger.  And  when  the  ducks  have  left  the 
frozen  slough,  the  quail  gone  to  the  bottoms, 

61 


62  GAME-BIKDS  AT  HOME. 

the  sand-hill  crane  no  longer  dots  the  plain,  and 
the  Honk  of  the  goose  has  died  away  in  the 
south,  then  the  grouse  is  about  the  only  com- 
panion left  the  dweller  on  the  prairie.  Whether 
sweeping  in  large  flocks  across  the  plain,  now 
on  sailing  pinions,  now  with  wavering  stroke  of 
wing,  or  on  frosty  mornings  sitting  quietly  upon 
the  fence,  or  in  colder  weather  studding  the  bare 
branches  of  the  timber,  this  bird  is  ever  the 
brightest  light  of  the  great  solitude.  Our  chil- 
dren's children  may  yet  hear  the  mellow  twitter 
of  the  woodcock's  wing  as  he  whirls  upward 
through  the  somber  shade,  over  the  harvest-field 
may  hear  the  flutelike  call  of  Bob  White,  and  in 
the  darksome  brake  yet  see  the  ruffed  grouse 
spread  his  banded  tail ;  but  few  shall  see  the 
pinnated  grouse,  except  as  rare  specimens.  For 
it  is  a  bird  that  increases  with  the  first  stage  of 
civilization,  pauses  at  the  second,  and  fades  for- 
ever with  the  third. 

Many  have  seen  the  pinnated  grouse  only 
where  immense  cornfields  or  long  slough-grass 
make  the  hunting  difficult,  where  the  weather  is 
intensely  hot  with  no  shade  heavier  than  that  of  a 
rosin-weed.  Many  have  hunted  them  only  when 


THE  PINNATED    GROUSE.  63 

the  young  were  too  small.  But  in  September, 
when  the  young  can  hardly  be  told  from  the  old 
ones,  a  hunt  on  the  breezy  hills  of  the  upper 
Mississippi — once  covered  with  parks  of  oak, 
open  enough  for  comfortable  driving  with  a 
wagon,  yet  dense  enough  for  good  shade — was 
something  vastly  different. 

"Prince  smells  something  already,"  said  the 
Squire,  as  the  dog  rose  in  the  wagon  and,  extend- 
ing head  and  neck  over  the  wheel,  began  to  sniff 
the  breeze  with  upraised  nose,  while  his  tail 
swayed  with  gentle  motion. 

We  had  come  up  one  of  the  long  ravines  that 
lead  from  the  bottom-lands  of  the  upper  Missis- 
sippi to  the  prairie  nearly  five  hundred  feet  above, 
and  had  reached  what  is  really  the  level  of  Min- 
nesota, instead  of  the  top  of  a  sharp  ridge  as  the 
edge  of  the  prairie  appears  from  the  river.  As 
the  wagon  stopped,  the  dog  sprung  to  the  ground 
without  awaiting  orders.  For  a  moment  he 
paused,  then  on  a  slow  walk  went  a  hundred 
yards  or  so  along  a  gentle  swell,  then  broke  into 
a  trot  and  from  that  into  a  gallop,  crossing  at 
right  angles  the  line  of  his  former  course  as  if  the 
scent  had  become  weakened  and  he  was  trying 


64  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

to  catch  it  again  in  full  intensity.  Suddenly  he 
wheeled  half  about  and  stopped  a  moment,  with 
a  slight  motion  of  his  tail,  then  as  suddenly 
started  off  on  a  walk,  but  more  cautiously  than 
before. 

As  we  tied  the  horses  to  a  tree  two  other 
wagons  belonging  to  the  party  drove  up,  contain- 
ing some  ladies  and  two  tyros.  Another  dog 
was  let  loose,  and  in  a  moment  more  he  was  pa- 
cing solemnly  along  in  the  rear  of  Prince,  and 
looking  about  as  wise. 

Where  deep-toned  pink  from  the  belated 
prairie-rose  nodded  over  green  beds  of  fern  the 
dogs  slowly  crawled,  and  soon  came  to  a  halt  a 
few  feet  from  a  fallen  tree-top.  From  the  trail- 
ing clusters  with  which  the  wild  pea  had  fes- 
tooned the  dead  branches  Bob  White  and  his 
wife  with  a  dozen  little  ones  rose  in  chirping  and 
twittering  lines  of  gray  and  brown,  curling  away 
in  all  directions.  Then  over  another  swell  the 
dogs  snaked  their  way  through  waving  prairie- 
grass  dotted  with  golden  moccasin-flowers.  On 
top  of  this  swell  Prince  paused  as  if  to  survey 
the  landscape.  Toward  the  west  rolled  a  mighty 
undulation  of  velvet  green  cut  with  ravines 


THE  PINNATED    GROUSE.  65 

nearly  five  hundred  feet  deep,  some  darkly  blue 
with  deep  shade,  others  filled  with  luminous 
haze.  With  an  air  of  profound  wisdom,  as  if  he 
had  taken  the  gauge  of  the  whole  situation,  Prince 
looked  around  at  the  party,  then  down  the  slope 
into  a  swale  where  the  white-fringed  corolla  of 
the  silene  and  the  red  lips  of  the  snapdragon 
kissed  amid  waving  sunflowers,  he  went  almost 
out  of  sight,  with  the  other  dog  following.  Up 
another  slope  he  went  with  slower  and  slower 
step  among  the  tender  blue  of  wild  flax,  and  on 
the  top  of  the  next  ridge  paused  again  to  survey 
the  world.  Along  the  hills  the  shining  leaves  of 
the  white  birch  were  trembling  on  its  white  staff, 
black  oaks  stood  massed  in  ranks  of  green  in  the 
heads  of  the  gulches,  on  the  points  of  the  ridges 
crags  of  sandstone  like  old-time  castles  hung  over 
the  valleys,  and  miles  away  across  the  great  bot- 
tom of  the  Mississippi  the  Wisconsin  bluffs  lay 
softly  green  in  the  clear  air,  with  golden  stubbles 
creeping  up  their  sides  or  gleaming  amid  the 
timber  that  fringed  their  tops.  But  there  was 
no  sign  or  sound  of  the  game  we  had  come  for, 
only  the  jingling  notes  of  the  jay  as  his  blue 
finery  flashed  among  the  deep  green  above  us, 


66  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

the  sleepy  bark  of  the  gray  squirrel  stretched  on 
some  big  limb,  the  red  and  white  of  the  wood- 
pecker as  he  rose  and  dipped  in  wavy  flight,  or 
lines  of  bluish  gray  where  wild  pigeons  shot 
through  the  openings.  Prince  seemed  to  think 
there  was  something,  though  by  the  intent  gaze 
he  kept  upon  the  landscape  at  large  he  showed 
himself  uncertain  of  the  exact  location  of  it. 
After  inspecting  the  scene  a  few  moments  with 
slowly-waving  tail,  he  licked  his  chaps  with  an 
air  of  great  satisfaction  and  moved  slowly  on. 
Then  he  swung  off  to  the  right  a  bit  and  then  to 
the  left  with  nose  high  upraised,  then  came  to  a 
sudden  stop  and  set  his  tail  and  upraised  foreleg 
as  if  never  to  be  moved  again.  Behind  him  a 
few  paces  stood  the  other  dog,  equally  motionless 
and  showing  by  his  wild  stare  that  he  smelt  the 
game  himself. 

Game  was  so  plenty  in  the  early  days  of  Min- 
nesota that  courtesy  was  cheap.  It  was  also 
more  fun  to  see  a  tyro  perform  than  to  shoot  a 
bird  yourself,  especially  when  it  was  apt  to  be 
the  old  bird  which  no  one  wanted.  So  the  two 
strangers,  neither  of  whom  had  ever  seen  a 
"chicken"  or  seen  a  dog  point,  were  told  to  go 


THE  PINNATED    GROUSE.  6/ 

ahead  and  take  first  shot  and  by  all  means  to 
keep  cool.  The  last  advice  was  given  to  upset 
their  nerves. 

To  the  dog  they  went  with  trembling  hands, 
one  alternately  scratching  his  nose  and  adjusting 
his  hat,  the  other  trying  to  walk  and  hold  the 
butt  of  the  gun  to  his  shoulder,  to  be  ready.  But 
nothing  rose,  and  ahead  of  the  dog  they  went, 
tyro  number  one  raising  his  gun  to  his  shoulder 
also,  so  as  not  to  be  left  in  the  lurch  by  the 
superior  quickness  of  number  two.  Five  paces 
ahead  of  the  dog  they  walked,  but  nothing  moved 
and  the  dogs  remained  like  statues.  Number 
two  had  to  take  down  his  gun  to  scratch  his  eye 
and  adjust  his  collar,  while  the  other  had  to  but- 
ton his  coat  so  as  to  get  the  tails  out  of  the  way 
of  action,  and  try  both  hammers  of  his  gun  to  be 
sure  they  were  cocked. 

Bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb  sprung  a  whirl  of  brown  and 
gray  from  the  tangle  of  fern  and  grass,  almost 
at  the  feet  of  one  of  the  strangers.  It  seemed 
as  easy  to  hit  as  an  elephant  tumbling  up  hill, 
and  with  great  apparent  calmness  he  pointed 
the  gun  full  at  the  middle  of  the  bird's  back. 
The  bird  was  almost  suffocated  in  a  vile  eruption 


68  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

of  cheap  powder,  but  out  of  the  smoke  it  came 
with  unruffled  feather.  The  amazement  of  the 
shooter  was  equaled  only  by  that  of  his  comrade, 
who  attempted  a  second  later  to  show  him  how 
such  things  should  be  done.  The  purple  head  of 
a  petalostemon  bowed  beneath  his  fire,  but  the 
bird  mounted  the  air  above  it  with  throbbing 
wing  that  seemed  all  the  stronger.  Bang  went 
the  second  barrel  of  number  one,  tunneling  the 
smoke  as  the  second  barrel  of  number  two 
poured  destruction  into  the  heart  of  a  flourishing 
caterpillar's  nest  on  a  scrub-oak  which  the  in- 
tended victim  had  just  passed. 

All  this  in  about  three  seconds.  Yet  before 
this  short  time  passed  a  Kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk 
sounded  amid  the  tempest  of  flame  as  two  more 
birds,  only  a  trifle  smaller  than  the  first,  but  with 
beat  of  wing  quite  as  heavy,  broke  cover  almost 
beneath  the  dogs'  noses,  followed  by  two  more 
about  the  time  they  were  fairly  under  way.  As 
two  guns  in  the  rear  of  the  party  rang  out,  the 
first  two  birds  that  rose  together  went  whirling 
out  of  a  cloud  of  feathers;  and  into  the  ferns 
from  which  they  rose  the  second  two  sank  at  the 
report  of  two  more  barrels,  while  the  first  one 


THE  PINNATED    GROUSE.  69 

that  rose,  the  old  mother  of  the  covey,  went 
sailing  away  over  a  ravine,  unshot  at.  As  the 
second  pair  of  birds  turned  over  in  air,  another 
grouse  rose  from  almost  the  same  place  as  the 
last  one,  followed  by  three  more  before  it  had 
fairly  cleared  the  grass.  And  two  of  these 
wilted  in  mid-air  as  two  more  guns  flamed  in  the 
rear,  while  the  other  two  birds  with  triumphant 
beat  of  wing  went  away  unscathed  amid  the  up- 
roar of  two  more  barrels. 

Motionless  and  serene  Prince  stood  amid  the 
racket,  for  that  mysterious  power  of  a  dog's  nose 
that  tells  him  whether  all  the  birds  have  risen 
told  him  that  some  yet  remained  hidden  in  the 
spangled  covert  before  him.  And  it  was  but  a 
moment  more  when  Kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk  went  an- 
other from  a  few  feet  before  him,  mounted  the 
sunlight  in  a  curve  of  whizzing  gray,  sailed  away 
through  the  open  timber,  and  settled  on  a  ridge 

,  some  three  hundred  yajds  away. 

i 

Yet  Prince  and  Doc,  the  dog  behind  him, 
stood  like  statues,  and  away  flew  another  grouse 
unshot  at ;  for  every  gun  was  now  empty,  with  its 
owner  straining  every  nerve  to  get  it  loaded. 
With  the  muzzle-loader  has  gone  an  interesting 


7O  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

feature  of  the  field ;  for  he  who  has  never  stood 
hastening  to  load  one  with  a  bird  or  two  rising 
at  each  stroke  of  the  ramrod,  and  got  the  first 
cap  on  just  as  the  last  bird  was  comfortably  out 
of  reach,  has  missed  a  peculiar  phase  of  existence. 
By  the  time  the  first  gun  was  ready  seven  more 
birds  had  risen  in  front  of  the  dogs  and  settled 
in  the  grass  two  or  three  hundred  yards  away. 
Then  Prince  relaxed  his  rigid  limbs  and,  after 
two  or  three  sniffs  at  the  place  from  which  the 
birds  had  risen,  went  to  find  the  fallen  ones. 

Not  more  than  once  or  twice  had  the  dogs 
quartered  the  ground  where  the  birds  alighted 
that  had  escaped,  when  Doc  wheeled  suddenly 
and  crouched  low.  In  the  gold  bloom  of  the 
moneywort  the  tip  of  his  tail  trembled  with 
his  efforts  to  hold  it  still,  while  his  head  and 
nose  were  almost  lost  in  a  dense  mat  of  fern  and 
grass.  Prince,  coming  down  the  slope  to  investi- 
gate— for  he  had  no  confidence  in  other  dogs,  and 
never  "  backed  "  anything  but  his  own  nose — 
stopped  about  half-way  and  dropped  almost  flat 
upon  the  ground,  with  glistening  eyes  turned 
toward  a  bunch  of  grass. 

A  greenhorn  was  now  detailed  to  each  dog, 


THE  PINNATED    GROUSE.  Jl 

with  instructions  to  keep  very  cool  and  be  sure 
not  to  fire  before  he  was  ready.  One  stepped 
ahead  of  Prince ;  yet  nothing  moved  but  the  dog, 
and  he  moved  only  half  a  step  and  stared  more 
wildly  than  ever  into  the  grass.  The  tenderfoot, 
after  scratching  one  ear,  setting  back  his  hat, 
buttoning  his  coat,  feeling  of  the  gun-hammers, 
clearing  his  right  eye,  and  easing  the  tension  of 
his  collar,  took  another  step  ahead  of  the  dog. 
Yet  again  nothing  moved  but  the  dog,  and  he 
moved  two  steps  ahead  and  stood  over  a  clump  of 
bluejoint,  looking  down  into  it  with  quivering 
tail.  The  tenderfoot  pulled  up  one  sleeve  of  his 
coat  and  shook  a  reef  out  of  the  other  so  as  to 
have  his  arms  free  for  action,  and,  giving  another 
rub  to  his  nose  and  another  wipe  at  his  eye, 
pushed  the  grass  aside  with  his  foot.  Out 
hustled  a  big  grouse  almost  from  between  the 
fore  legs  of  the  dog.  Prince  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  snap  at  it,  with  the  usual  result  of 
being  just  three  and  a  half  inches  too  far  behind. 
At  the  sound  of  its  wings  another  bird  rose  a  few 
feet  farther  on,  followed  by  the  one  that  Doc 
was  pointing.  In  the  immediate  rear  of  the  first 
bird  tenderfoot  number  one  exploded  a  mine  of 


72  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

country-store  powder,  but  the  game  being  ahead 
of  it  escaped  asphyxiation,  while  number  two  got 
in  his  fire  a  little  farther  ahead  of  another  bird, 
which  succumbed  at  once. 

Again  the  dogs  careered  for  a  few  minutes 
among  the  lavender  of  the  panicled  aster  that 
was  waving  in  the  cool  breeze,  startling  the  prai- 
rie song-sparrow  that  on  the  purple  head  of  the 
iron-weed  was  still  singing  his  summer  song,  and 
almost  before  we  knew  it  each  dog  had  stopped 
firm  as  a  rock  by  a  bunch  of  ferns.  Again  the 
greenhorns  were  sent  ahead  to  take  first  shot, 
and  the  one  who  had  made  the  last  successful 
shot  stepped  smiling  up  to  Prince.  From  a 
maze  of  purple  and  gold,  where  the  golden-rod 
and  cone-flower  were  springing  to  keep  up  the 
procession  of  blossoms  that  illumine  these  prai- 
ries so  much  of  the  year,  burst  a  haze  of  gray 
and  brown  so  big  it  seemed  impossible  to  miss. 
At  less  than  ten  feet  the  first  barrel  of  the  tender- 
foot roared  into  the  very  middle,  as  it  seemed,  of 
the  brown  cloud.  But  the  bird  was  headed  for 
the  strong  western  breeze,  which  it  was  already 
splitting  so  fast  that  the  pot-metaled  gun  could 
not  reach  it,  and  on  it  went  with  the  second  bar- 


THE  PINNATED    GROUSE.  73 

rel  of  number  one  and  the  first  barrel  of  number 
two  bellowing  in  its  rear,  along  with  another  gun 
or  two  from  behind :  and  down  it  came.  Each 
one  of  the  tenderfeet  swore  he  killed  it,  and  as 
no  one  but  the  other  tenderfoot  disputed  it  both 
were  happy. 

A  combined  picnic  and  hunting-party  is  gen- 
erally a  heartless  hoax.  But  years  ago  on  these 
grounds  such  things  were  a  great  success  and 
very  common.  Game  enough  for  lunch  and  for 
the  whole  party  to  divide  in  the  evening,  with  a 
goodly  share  to  each,  was  an  absolute  certainty; 
and  as  a  wagon  could  be  driven  anywhere  over 
the  bluffs,  the  amount  of  work  was  trifling.  As 
we  had  birds  enough  for  lunch,  we  stopped  shoot- 
ing for  the  middle  of  the  day,  as  we  could  begin 
again  at  four  o'clock  with  a  certainty  of  enough 
birds  to  take  home. 

Under  a  large  oak  that  overlooked  the  broad 
valley  of  the  Mississippi  we  sat  down  to  rest. 
On  every  side  the  deep  ravines  that  furrowed 
these  bluffs  when  the  great  glacier  of  the  North 
relaxed  its  grip  were  still  robed  in  the  hues  of 
summer,  the  whole  a  couch  of  green  velvet  on 
which  peace  lay  sleeping.  At  the  bottom  of  a 


74  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

deep  valley  the  waters  of  the  Zumbro  wound 
their  swift  way  to  the  Mississippi  through  hills 
blue  with  soft  intensity  of  shade,  or  golden  with 
the  brightness  of  the  sunlight  that  slept  upon 
them,  while  the  rosy  haze  poured  into  the  deeper 
valley,  cast  a  dreamy  air  over  the  green  thickets 
that  bowed  to  their  shadows  in  the  clear  river. 
Here  rolled  the  stream  in  shining  curves  through 
groves  of  sycamore,  maple,  and  willow,  and  there 
it  was  joined  by  a  silvery  thread  that  shimmered 
through  meadows  deeply  green  with  blue-joint 
and  flag,  spangled  with  the  gold  of  the  autumn 
dandelion,  and  tempered  with  the  tender  purple 
of  the  Arethusa.  Still  another  brook  glistened 
through  groves  of  wild  plum,  crab-apple,  and 
hawthorn,  and  thickets  of  bright  hazel  and  dark 
green  viburnum,  from  which  we  could  faintly 
hear  the  drum  of  the  ruffed  grouse,  and  then 
it  was  lost  under  arcades  of  alder,  and  willow 
in-  whose  shades  fancy  could  almost  see  the  flash 
of  the  trout.  Miles  away  in  the  south,  shining 
as  a  meteor's  trail,  the  Mississippi  vanished  in  a 
haze  of  green  and  gold  where  the  timber  and 
stubbles  on  its  bluffs  blended  in  the  dancing 
heat  on  the  horizon.  There,  too,  peace  lay 


THE  PINNATED    GROUSE.  75 

sleeping,  and  on  the  timbered  islands  that  di- 
vided its  winding  path,  and  on  the  broad  belts 
of  timber  beside  its  course,  dotted  with  many  a 
glimmering  lake.  And  even  on  the  great  gleam- 
ing bars  of  sand  peace  gently  brooded,  and  in 
the  curves  of  deep  shade  where  the  mighty 
stream  swept  close  to  the  gigantic  cottonwoods 
along  the  shore.  Rafts  of  lumber  covering  acres 
of  space,  and  the  steamer  trailing  her  sooty  ban- 
ner against  the  sky,  were  about  the  only  signs  of 
man  that  marred  the  fair  scene. 

Where  the  white  gentian  of  the  prairie  was 
smiling  beside  the  soft  purple  of  the  sabbatia,  and 
the  air  was  redolent  of  basil  and  thyme,  amid  the 
hum  of  the  wild  bee  and  the  whistle  of  the  wings 
of  the  dove  as  he  shot  through  the  air  above  us, 
a  cloth  was  spread,  and  on  it  a  lunch  fit  for  the 
gods.  Then  after  two  hours  of  eating,  smoking, 
dozing,  and  swapping  of  hunter's  truths,  we 
started,  in  the  cool  of  the  afternoon,  for  birds  to 
take  home. 

Not  many  hundred  yards  had  we  gone  when 
Doc  suddenly  stopped  and  pointed  long  enough 
to  empty  the  wagon  of  every  man  that  had  a  gun. 
Then  off  he  went  on  a  half-trot  which  quickly 


76  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

settled  to  a  walk,  the  walk  to  a  crawl,  and  the 
crawl  to  a  firm  point.  Ten,  twenty,  almost  forty 
yards  we  walked  ahead  of  him  without  anything 
moving,  yet  he  refused  to  budge.  Just  as  some 
one  intimated  that  he  was  fibbing,  an  old  hen- 
grouse  burst  from  almost  beneath  the  feet  of  one 
of  the  novices.  Two  full-grown  young  ones 
followed  with  a  Kuk-kuk-kiik-kuk-knk  on  the 
right,  two  more  on  the  left,  then  two  or  three 
in  front,  and  then  two  or  three  more  on  each  side. 

No  such  thing  as  first  shot  for  any  one,  then ! 
Courtesy  was  whistled  down  the  wind  and  guns 
spouted  fire  overhead,  across  noses  and  alongside 
of  ears ;  for  at  this  time  of  the  day  love  of  nature 
is  liable  to  be  tempered  with  considerations  of  the 
larder.  In  about  seven  seconds  seven  grouse  lay 
in  a  semicircle,  while  five  or  six  more  vanished 
over  a  rise  beyond,  as  Doc  came  trotting  up  with 
wagging  tail  and  looking  the  most  satisfied  of  the 
party. 

As  we  went  to  find  the  birds  that  had  escaped 
this  last  cannonade  we  discovered  Prince  some 
four  hundred  yards  away,  on  the  edge  of  the 
prairie-grass  and  motionless  as  the  Sphinx,  gazing 
vacantly  out  upon  a  stubble.  As  we  came  up 


THE  PINNATED    GROUSE.  77 

he  moved  slowly  ahead,  stopping  every  few  feet 
and  sniffing  delicately  at  the  breeze  now  coming 
cool  and  fresh  and  carrying  scent  a  long  way. 
More  than  half  across  a  forty-acre  stubble  he  led 
us,  and  then  refused  to  go  farther.  Full  forty 
yards  ahead  of  him  we  went,  when  a  big  grouse 
bustled  out  of  the  stubble  and  skimmed  away 
unshot  at. 

"An  old  cock,"  said  some  one,  as  nothing 
more  rose.  But  Prince  still  kept  his  point,  and 
just  as  we  began  to  doubt  him  two  young  grouse 
rose  from  near  the  center  of  the  party  and  in 
front  of  one  of  the  strangers,  who  was  looking 
down  at  the  very  spot  from  which  they  rose. 
He  singed  the  tail-feathers  of  one  with  his  first, 
and  my  ear  still  rings  from  the  report  of  his 
second  barrel.  At  the  reports  more  birds 
bounced  out  all  around,  some  even  behind  us,  on 
which  some  of  the  party  must  almost  have  trod- 
den, and  for  a  few  seconds  confusion  reigned 
supreme. 


V. 


THE   SHARP-TAILED    GROUSE. 

SWIFT  little  streams,  pure  as  the  drip  from  an 
iceberg,  sunk  in  banks  of  tangled  grass,  from  the 
depths  of  which  the  gleam  of  the  darting  trout 
wakes  precious  memories,  wind  among  alders 
interlacing  into  arcades  above  them,  and  through 
groves  of  plum,  viburnum,  and  hazel  from  which 
sounds  the  occasional  drumming  of  the  ruffed 
grouse.  On  each  side  open  prairie  rolls  in  grass 
and  ferns,  starred  with  the  gold  of  the  lady- 
slipper,  toned  down  with  the  soft  pink  of  the 
phlox  and  the  blue  of  the  lupin.  Rising  from 
this  are  long  swells  dotted  with  oaks  that  stand 
like  trees  in  some  ancient  apple-orchard.  Brightly 
green  the  white  birch  nods  up  on  the  scene  from 
the  surrounding  ridges,  and  miles  away  the  eye 
can  sweep  to  where  the  maple  and  aspen  rise  in 
tier  upon  tier  along  the  sides  of  the  higher  bluffs. 

78 


THE   SHARP-TAILED    GROUSE.  79 

Mile  after  mile  of  prairie  stretches  away  upon 
their  backs,  and  around  their  feet  lie  pockets  and 
benches  of  smooth  land  on  which  oak  openings 
stretch  their  orchardlike  expanse ;  the  whole  so 
suggestive  of  grouse,  quail,  deer,  squirrels,  and 
hares,  with  elk,  antelope,  buffalo,  and  bears,  that 
one  can  hardly  wait  for  daylight.  Where  do 
you  find  such  a  combination  as  this?  Nowhere 
now,  I  fear ;  but  time  was  when  the  western  part 
of  Wisconsin  could  in  places  show  the  prettiest 
combination  of  prairie  and  meadow  with  upland, 
bluff  and  brooks,  timber,  game  and  fish,  the 
Creator  ever  made. 

The  rose-blossom  business  has  spoiled  it,  but 
it  is  not  many  years  since  much  of  it  lay  in  all 
its  native  beauty;  and  though  the  elk  and  the 
antelope  had  gone  with  the  buffalo  to  where  the 
white  man  was  scarcer,  the  other  wild  tenants  of 
the  hills  and  dales  were  about  as  plenty  as  ever. 

In  the  early  days  of  Minnesota  the  sharp-tailed 
grouse  was  the  prevailing  variety,  giving  place,  as 
the  country  was  settled,  to  the  pinnated  grouse; 
but  in  the  eastern  part  of  Buffalo  County,  Wis- 
consin, the  sharp-tail  remained  in  abundance 
long  after  settlement  had  reached  the  stage  that 


80  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

had  driven  it  from  Minnesota.  It  became  much 
wilder  than  the  common  grouse,  however,  and 
when  the  coveys  were  packing  into  large  flocks 
there  was  a  period  of  two  or  three  weeks  before 
they  became  too  wild  to  lie  to  a  dog,  when  it 
taxed  all  the  skill  of  both  dog  and  master  to 
secure  a  shot  before  the  snowy  tails  were  out 
of  reach.  There  were  times  when  we  sighed  for 
something  more  difficult  than  the  pinnated 
grouse-shooting  of  Minnesota,  though  that  was 
hard  enough  at  times.  When  we  sighed  we 
generally  made  a  trip  to  this  part  of  Wisconsin, 
and  our  prayers  for  something  wild  and  swift 
were  always  fondly  answered. 

Gayly  the  dog  raced  over  the  prairie  and,  fresh 
from  a  bath  in  the  singing  brook  against  the 
breeze  of  a  cool  September  morning,  dove  through 
grass  and  ferns  and  cantered  over  the  swells. 
He  knew  the  game  right  well,  and,  at  a  pace  that 
would  have  astonished  an  eastern  dog-trainer, 
scattered  the  lavender  rays  of  the  aster  and 
bounded  over  the  purpling  boneset.  Half  a 
mile  ahead,  and  as  far  on  each  side  of  our  course, 
he  galloped  over  the  prairie,  when,  on  a  long 
beat,  he  suddenly  wheeled  and  dropped  flat,  as  a 


THE   SHARP-TAILED    GROUSE  8 1 

big  bird  rose  from  the  grass  thirty  yards  on  one 
side  and  vanished  over  the  next  swell.  But  no 
dog  moved,  and  we  could  see  the  top  of  his  head 
above  the  grass,  and  the  outline  of  the  nose 
pointed  toward  the  place  from  which  the  bird 
had  risen. 

As  we  came  beside  him  he  looked  at  us  with 
wistful  glance,  then  licked  his  chaps  and  stared 
ahead,  vacantly  but  earnestly.  We  moved  a 
little  ahead  of  him,  but  he  declined  to  rise,  and 
there  was  no  change  on  his  countenance  except 
an  air  of  deeper  certainty.  With  sudden  roar  a 
huddle  of  light-brown  backs  and  snowy  under- 
wear burst  from  the  ferns  thirty  yards  ahead, 
aimed  for  Minnesota,  and  went  upward  and 
onward  at  a  rate  of  speed  surpassed  only  by  the 
ruffed  grouse,  and  not  very  much  by  him.  There 
was  not  a  twinkling  to  be  lost,  and  both  guns 
cracked  together.  The  bird  in  front  of  my 
companion's  gun  went  down  in  a  flutter  of  white. 
As  the  reader  has  lived  twenty-five  years  with- 
out knowing  what  became  of  the  one  the  writer 
shot  at,  it  is  possible  he  may  survive  the  rest  of 
his  allotted  time  in  the  bliss  of  equal  ignorance. 

Bbbbbbbbbbbbbbb  went  a  dozen  more  before  the 


82  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

fallen  one  had  reached  the  ground.  Again  two 
barrels  barked  almost  together,  and  two  big  birds 
went  whirling  over;  for  we  shot  very  good  guns 
then,  even  if  they  were  muzzle-loaders,  and  fed 
them  all  they  could  stagger  under,  as  no  close  or 
easy  shots  could  be  expected  with  these  birds  so 
late  in  the  season.  Before  the  two  stricken  ones 
had  fallen  with  heavy  bump  into  the  grass, 
twenty  or  thirty  more  birds  rose  with  a  vast 
flutter  of  white  feathers  and,  massing  up  like  a 
charge  of  grape,  shot  away  over  the  prairie  on 
the  course  taken  by  the  other  birds  that  had 
risen.  Three  hundred  yards  they  went ;  set 
their  wings  and  rode  swiftly  down  the  breeze,  as 
if  to  alight ;  then  suddenly  with  rapid  stroke 
they  rose  again,  then  skimmed  low  along  the 
horizon,  then  changed  to  quick  beat  of  wing 
that  carried  them  up  a  little,  then  with  whiffling 
stroke  of  wing  sped  on  again  until  nearly  a  mile 
away  they  sailed  with  majestic  sweep  over  a  low 
ridge. 

A  mile  was  nothing  to  walk  for  another  shot 
at  such  game,  and  we  soon  reached  the  crest  of 
the  ridge  over  which  the  birds  had  disappeared. 
Spreading  away  on  the  other  side  was  a  long 


THE  SHARP-TAILED    GROUSE.  83 

slope  of  heavy  prairie-grass  mixed  with  ferns  and 
flowers,  making  the  best  of  cover  to  induce  the 
birds  to  lie.  Even  as  we  looked  upon  it  the 
slow  swing  of  the  dog's  tail  ceased  and  his  eyes 
began  to  look  serious.  He  raised  his  head  and 
smelt  the  air  with  deep  satisfaction.  Then  look- 
ing around  at  us  for  an  instant,  he  started  on  at 
a  slow  pace.  A  hundred  yards  he  went,  with 
tail  becoming  slower  and  slower  in  its  oscillation 
and  legs  more  and  more  draggy.  Another  fifty 
yards  he  went,  then  stood  for  a  moment  with 
nose  upraised  to  the  cool  western  breeze.  Ex- 
pecting the  birds  to  lie  close  after  such  a  long 
flight  and  in  such  long  cover,  we  moved  up  to 
the  dog.  But  all  was  silent  except  great  sheets 
of  wild  pigeons,  from  the  vast  roost  on  the  Chip- 
pewa  bottoms,  that  made  the  air  hiss  as  they 
darkened  the  sky  above  us.  After  standing  a 
moment  the  dog  broke  his  point,  went  slowly 
ahead  for  another  hundred  yards,  and  there  he 
gradually  settled  to  a  point  more  rigid  than  the 
last,  with  certainty  in  every  wrinkle  of  his  nose. 
We  went  to  where  we  thought  the  birds  were 
hidden,  but  nothing  moved.  Had  it  been  two 
weeks  earlier  they  might  have  been  lying  in  the 


84  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

grass  at  our  feet,  with  feathers  tightly  pressed, 
light  brown  heads  drawn  in,  and  beadlike  eyes 
fixed  upon  us,  yet  so  closely  hidden  that  no 
mortal  could  see  them  though  looking  directly 
down  upon  them.  Now  they  might  be  fifty 
yards  away ;  but  they  were  somewhere  near,  for 
the  firm  mouth  of  the  dog  and  his  wildly-staring 
eye  showed  he  was  not  mistaken.  So  on  we 
moved,  with  guns  ready  for  the  quickest 
work. 

Twenty  yards  ahead  of  the  dog  we  went  when, 
thirty  yards  beyond  us  and  on  no  feebly-flutter- 
ing wing,  but  more  like  the  start  of  a  rocket,  a 
big  bird  bounced  out  of  the  grass,  and,  as  we 
threw  our  guns  to  our  shoulders,  two  more 
grouse  burst  from  near  the  same  place.  Flame 
leaped  at  the  path  of  the  first  bird,  but  on  he 
went  at  redoubled  speed ;  flame  followed  flame, 
and  the  whizzing  line  of  white  plunged  wabbling 
to  the  grass.  The  nether  garments  of  another 
bird  sent  out  a  puff  of  white  at  the  report  of 
another  barrel,  but  the  owner  sped  on  as  if  the 
lighter  for  their  loss.  A  third,  mounting  high 
on  exultant  wing  and  well  out  of  ordinary  range, 
turned  over  at  the  crack  of  another  barrel  and 


THE  SHARP-TAILED   GROUSE.  85 

fell  with  a  bump  into  the  grass,  while  the  first 
one,  gliding  far  across  the  prairie  with  wondrous 
speed,  suddenly  rose  in  air  and,  setting  both 
wings,  slid  down  the  wind,  stone-dead. 

The  dog  moved  not  a  muscle.  Right  well 
we  knew  what  that  meant,  and  hastened  to  re- 
load. But  before  the  guns  were  half  loaded 
Bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb  went  three  more  grouse,  like 
snowballs  from  a  cannon,  out  of  sight  over  the 
next  swell;  and,  just  as  we  got  the  caps  half  on, 
more  burst  with  obstreperous  wing  from  about 
the  same  spot  and  went  like  happiness  away. 
And  still  the  dog,  gently  sniffing  the  cool, 
strong  breeze,  stood  like  a  rock. 

Just  as  we  concluded  there  must  be  more 
lying  near  the  same  place,  a  dozen  with  tumult- 
uous uproar  broke  from  the  cover,  some  curling 
around  on  the  side,  some  spinning  straight  away, 
all  rising  and  all  going,  O  how  swiftly!  while 
the  guns  belched  lurid  lightning  amid  the  white 
birches  and  aspens. 

What?  Did  we  get  any?  Send  stamp  for  my 
companion's  address.  Perhaps  he  will  tell  you. 

And  still  the  dog  did  not  move.  He  merely 
turned  his  nose  a  little  on  one  side  while  we 


86  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

hammered  the  loads  into  the  guns  as  fast  as 
gravity  would  allow  us  to  raise  the  ramrods. 

Bbbbbbb — bang  went  a  bird  and  a  gun  almost 
together,  and  Bbbbbbbbb  went  half  a  dozen  more 
as  the  first  one  fell  into  the  grass.  Bang-k-bang 
went  three  more  shots,  and  two  birds  sank  like 
lead,  while  four  with  uproarious  wing  and  invio- 
late raiment  rent  the  rising  breeze,  and  before 
our  empty  guns  three  more  rose  and  hastened 
on  to  keep  them  company. 

And  now  the  dog  broke  his  point.  That 
mysterious  power  that  tells  a  dog  the  difference 
between  the  scent  of  a  live  bird  and  a  dead  one 
is  nothing  to  the  delicacy  that  tells  him  at  once 
when  all  the  hidden  birds  have  risen,  though 
scent  must  certainly  remain  in  the  grass  a  minute 
or  two.  But  up  he  came  at  once,  on  a  slow  trot 
that  showed  he  knew  what  he  was  about,  and 
straight  he  went  for  the  dead  ones. 

The  fallen  birds  retrieved,  the  dog  went  can- 
tering gayly  toward  the  place  where  the  scat- 
tered birds  had  gone,  for  it  paid  to  follow  them 
a  long  way,  and  on  their  track  was  as  good  a 
place  as  any  other  to  find  a  new  flock.  Here 
he  suddenly  wheeled,  marched  a  few  paces  up 


THE   SHARP-TAILED    GROUSE.  87 

wind  with  high-raised  nose  and  inquiring  sniff 
of  the  breeze,  then,  suddenly  giving  it  up,  gal 
loped  on  again.  He  had  gone  scarcely  three 
hundred  yards  beyond  the  place  where  the  last 
bird  rose,  when  he  suddenly  slackened  speed  and, 
like  a  cat  sneaking  for  the  best  position  from 
which  to  spring,  he  swung  around  to  the  full 
play  of  the  breeze,  then,  crouching  low,  crept  a 
few  paces  ahead  and  settled  to  a  statuesque 
position. 

As  we  went  to  him  there  was  a  roar  and  a 
flash  of  white  some  sixty  yards  ahead,  but  both 
guns  thundered  and  the  white  fell  into  the  ferns 
before  it  had  fairly  cleared  the  nodding  gold  of 
the  sunflowers.  Before  we  could  exchange  con- 
gratulations there  was  another  burst  of  white 
ten  yards  beyond  the  last,  another  simultaneous 
roar  of  two  barrels,  another  whirl  of  white  and 
brown  into  the  ferns.  I  do  not  guarantee  these 
distances,  because  in  these  days,  when  so  many 
busybodies  are  measuring  everything  instead  of 
guessing  in  the  good  old  way,  it  doesn't  take  as 
many  yards  to  make  a  long  shot  as  it  used  to. 
Each  one  declaring  that  the  other  had  killed 
both  birds  (well  knowing  the  compliment  would 


88  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

be  returned  and  that  his  own  private  indorse- 
ment of  it  was  all  that  was  needed  to  make  it 
certain),  we  loaded  and  moved  on.  It  was  plain 
that  some  of  the  main  flock  had  gone  farther 
than  those  we  had  scattered  a  few  minutes  before, 
and  there  might  be  a  dozen  or  more  ahead  of  us. 

So  thought  the  dog ;  for,  after  careful  investi- 
gation of  the  breeze,  he  straightened  out  his  tail, 
and,  as  we  stopped,  two  more  grouse  rose  from 
about  the  place  where  the  last  one  fell.  Bang, 
whang,  k-bang  went  all  four  barrels  before  the 
game  had  fairly  cleared  the  top  of  the  ferns. 
Each  seemed  trying  to  shoot  quicker  than  the 
other,  so  as  to  have  no  doubt  about  the  results 
this  time.  And  there  were  no  doubts. 

In  the  shade  of  some  alders  along  a  sparkling 
brook  we  spent  the  noon  at  lunch,  finishing  on 
the  luscious  red  and  yellow  wild  plums  of  this 
country,  and  lay  there  talking  quite  awhile  after- 
ward before  noticing  that  the  dog  was  missing. 
The  longest  blasts  of  the  whistle  brought  noth- 
ing for  some  time,  when  the  dog  suddenly  ap- 
peared on  the  crest  of  the  next  ridge.  For  a 
moment  he  stood  looking  coolly  at  us  with 
slowly-waving  tail,  then  deliberately  turned  and 


THE  SHARP-TAILED    GROUSE.  89 

vanished  over  the  ridge.  We  went  to  the  top, 
and  some  four  hundred  yards  down  a  gentle 
slope  we  saw  the  dog's  head  and  back  above  the 
grass.  He  looked  around  to  see  if  we  were 
coming,  and  then  moved  slowly  on  some  thirty 
yards.  We  walked  a  few  yards  ahead  of  him, 
when  forty  yards  farther  on  some  thirty  grouse — 
two  coveys  evidently  united — rose  with  riotous 
hubbub.  One  bird  went  bouncing  into  the  grass 
at  the  sound  of  the  guns,  and  another  shook 
some  snowy  down  from  its  tail  and  went  whiz- 
zing away  after  its  companions.  The  whole 
flock  flew  over  half  a  mile  and  settled  in  a  patch 
of  long  slough-grass.  There  was  but  little  over 
an  acre  in  the  piece,  and  the  grass  was  about 
waist-high.  It  was  likely  the  birds  would  lie 
very  close  in  this,  but  they  were  so  wild  that  no 
chances  could  be  taken ;  and  as  we  had  come 
twenty-five  miles  for  this  shooting,  we  deter- 
mined to  make  the  best  of  it,  especially  as  the 
birds  would  in  a  few  days  be  too  wild  to  hunt 
with  a  dog  at  all. 

As  we  swung  to  the  leeward  two  hundred 
yards  from  the  grass,  the  cool,  strong  breeze 
blowing  over  it  brought  the  dog  to  a  halt.  Fifty 


OX)  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

yards  nearer  we  went,  with  the  dog  slowly  fol- 
lowing. Fifty  more,  and  the  dog  followed  more 
slowly.  Fifty  more,  and  he  hesitated  long  be- 
fore moving  up  to  us.  Another  twenty  yards 
brought  him  to  a  point  which  he  refused  to 
break  in  spite  of  all  urging.  When  we  reached 
the  edge  of  the  grass  without  anything  rising,  the 
dog  moved  slowly  up.  We  went  some  twenty 
feet  into  it  before  a  bird  burst  from  the  tangle 
of  grass,  almost  at  the  feet  of  my  companion,  and 
went  curling  around  over  the  dog,  falling  in  a 
fluttering  racket  of  white  and  brown  almost  upon 
him.  But  the  dog  paid  no  attention  to  it.  For 
the  next  half-hour  the  dog  did  little  but  crawl 
and  lie  down.  Though  the  birds  went  like  bul- 
lets when  they  rose,  before  that  they  lay  like 
stones  in  the  long  grass  at  this  time  of  day,  de- 
pending on  hiding  more  than  on  their  wings. 
Half  the  time,  when  the  dog  was  told  to  go  on 
after  we  had  finished  loading,  he  did  nothing  but 
turn  his  head  to  one  side  or  the  other,  and 
several  times  he  did  this  without  rising  to  his 
feet  from  where  he  had  lain  down  at  the  report 
of  the  gun.  Several  birds  had  fallen  before  we 
could  pick  up  a  dead  one,  and  even  then  we 


THE  SHARP-TAILED    GROUSE.  9 1 

could  not  make  the  dog  go  ahead  to  retrieve. 
He  would  only  back  out  and  swing  around  to 
leeward  to  pick  up  those  that  had  fallen  on  the 
sides.  And  then  he  would  swing  back  before 
entering  the  center  again. 

The  twentieth  century  will  sneer  at  the  nine- 
teenth as  we  do  at  the  eighteenth.  But  I  am 
satisfied  that  my  lot  was  cast  in  the  nineteenth. 
It  is  good  enough  for  me. 


VI. 

DAYS  AMONG    THE    DUCKS.      THE    EVENING 
FLIGHT. 

ALONG  the  bottom-lands  of  the  Illinois  River 
the  flag  was  fading  and  tints  of  gray  were  be- 
ginning to  creep  over  the  stately  head  of  the 
cat-tail,  the  scarlet  plume  of  the  cardinal-flower 
was  drooping,  while  the  arms  of  the  cottonwood 
above  it  were  shedding  yellowing  leaves  into  the 
smooth  waters,  when,  toward  the  middle  of  an 
afternoon  in  1864,  with  a  light  boat  and  a  com- 
panion, I  was  winding  up  one  of  the  sloughs  that 
lead  from  the  river  into  the  bottoms.  Along  the 
muddy  shores  Wilson's  snipe  was  lounging  with 
easy  grace,  probing  the  soft  mud,  or  squatting 
in  some  little  bunch  of  grass  and  waiting  for  the 
boat  to  come  within  a  few  feet  before  springing 
into  his  erratic  flight.  His  long  bill  and  peculiar 
head,  large  lustrous  eyes  and  gamy  hues,  made 
never  a  more  pretty  picture  than  when  mirrored 

92 


DA  YS  AMONG    THE  D  UCKS.  93 

in  the  still  water  as  he  rose  in  flight  or  trotted 
along  the  water's  edge  as  unconcerned  as  if  he 
knew  we  were  after  larger  game.  Dozens  of 
yellow-legged  snipe  marched  along  the  shore,  or 
rose  into  dignified  flight,  when  we  came  too  near, 
and  flew  a  few  yards  up  stream  to  alight  and  look 
at  us  again.  Golden  plover  in  large  flocks  swept 
along  the  bars,  and  small  snipe  of  many  kinds 
whisked  about  in  numbers  now  almost  incredible. 
It  was  plain  that  such  game  was  not  shot  at ;  and 
equally  plain  that  the  plumage-hunter  for  bon- 
nets had  not  yet  arrived,  for  snowy  egrets  flapped 
lazily  from  the  trees  as  we  came  too  near,  while 
big  herons,  and  bitterns  in  blue  and  brown,  hardly 
took  the  trouble  to  rise  as  we  passed  them  within 
easy  pistol-range. 

The  frosts  had  been  early  in  the  great  breed- 
ing-grounds of  the  north,  and  in  the  upper  sky 
long  lines  of  ducks  were  headed  for  the  south. 
Squealing  and  quacking  at  every  turn  in  the 
slough  rose  wood-ducks,  mallards,  teal,  and  other 
ducks,  often  wheeling  around  or  whizzing  over  us 
in  a  most  tempting  manner.  But  my  companion, 
who  was  an  old  hand,  told  me  to  let  them  all  go, 
as  better  things  were  in  store. 


94  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

A  mile  or  so  from  the  river  the  slough  ran  into 
an  open  marsh  at  the  foot  of  Senachwine  Lake, 
and  from  the  side  sloughs  and  ponds  rose  huge 
flocks  of  mallards  so  close  that  the  burnished 
green  of  their  necks  and  heads,  the  glistening 
bands  of  blue  upon  their  wings,  and  the  delicate 
curls  of  shining  green  upon  their  rumps  were  as 
clear  as  the  white  bands  on  their  tails.  But  we 
let  them  go,  as  it  is  not  always  wise  to  shoot  at 
ducks  when  you  drive  them  out  of  a  place,  and 
my  friend  said  this  was  nothing  to  what-  I  would 
see  before  dark,  and  told  me  to  save  all  my  am- 
munition for  the  evening  flight.  He  then  placed 
me  on  a  tongue  of  land  running  into  a  shallow 
pond,  and  directed  me  to  hide  well  in  the  reeds, 
while  he  went  to  another  point  some  two  hun- 
dred yards  away. 

As  it  was  my  first  introduction  to  ducks  I 
meant  to  follow  his  advice,  though  there  were 
ducks  enough  in  sight  to  satisfy  any  one.  Along 
the  sky  streamed  lines  of  dark  dots,  while  from 
over  the  reeds  and  the  timber  in  all  directions 
came  small  bunches,  big  flocks,  and  single  ducks. 
Scarcely  was  I  well  hidden  in  the  reeds  when  a 
wood-duck,  resplendent  in  carmine  and  purple, 


DAYS  AMONG    THE  DUCKS.  95 

with  beamy  chestnut  and  velvety  black,  came 
whizzing  past  from  the  right.  My  friend  was 
not  yet  a  hundred  yards  away,  and  I  thought  it  a 
good  opportunity  to  show  him  how  I  could  shoot. 
As  I  whirled  the  gun  toward  the  game,  a  blue- 
winged  teal,  bound  to  reach  Louisiana  before 
dark,  came  hissing  from  the  opposite  direction, 
and  must  have  been  ten  feet  past  the  wood-duck 
by  the  time  the  first  barrel  went  off.  How  I 
jerked  that  gun  back  again  toward  the  teal  with- 
out breaking  the  stock  I  don't  know  to  this  day. 
But  it  was  one  of  those  rare  opportunities  to  try 
the  most  difficult  of  all  shots  that  are  irresistibly 
tempting.  One  is  foolish  to  attempt  such  a  shot 
where  any  one  can  see  him ;  for  the  second  bird 
is  almost  certain  to  be  fifty  yards  or  more  beyond 
the  place  where  you  fire  at  the  first  bird  before 
you  can  possibly  reverse  the  motion  of  the  gun 
and  throw  it  far  enough  to  the  other  side.  In 
both  cases  the  aim  must  be  taken  and  the  trigger 
pulled  with  the  quickness  of  thought,  for  the 
slightest  delay  or  failure  to  cover  the  second  bird 
with  the  center  of  the  charge  is  almost  certain  to 
be  fatal  to  success. 

In  a  few  minutes  a  big  mallard  came  along 


Q6  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

with  lazy  stroke  of  wing,  wagging  his  long  green 
neck  and  head  up  and  down  as  if  looking  for  a 
comfortable  place  to  alight  and  suspecting  no 
dan — 

"But  hold  on.  How  about  those  other  two 
ducks?  " 

Perdition  seize  your  curiosity !  What  differ- 
ence does  it  make  now,  after  so  many  years? 
But  if  you  will  insist,  I  suppose  I  must  tell.  I 
had  a  little  hatchet  once,  myself,  and  it  worked 
just  as  well  on  the  corner  of  a  new  barn  as  on 
cherry-trees.  One  day  when  an  ancestor  ap- 
peared on  the  scene  of  my  labors  I  thought  I 
would  make  a  record  that  would  dull  the  luster 
of  that  of  Washington.  But  when  the  said  an- 
cestor stooped  to  cut  a  hickory  sprout,  my  thinker 
slipped  an  eccentric  and  ditched  the  train  of 
thought  in  a  misapprehension  of  fact.  The 
readjustment  of  my  moral  machinery  that  took 
place  in  the  next  ninety-one  seconds  was  so 
complete  that  it  has  never  since  jumped  a  cog. 
Therefore,  impertinent  reader,  if  you  will  insist, 
you  shall  have  the  truth.  I  got  them  both. 

Well,  that  mallard  was  so  big,  plump,  and  easy 
in  flight,  along  the  gun  I  so  plainly  saw  the  light 


DAYS  AMONG    THE  DUCKS,  97 

dance  on  his  burnished  head  that  it  seemed  un- 
necessary to  aim  very  far  ahead  of  him.  Had 
the  sun  dropped  from  heaven  I  could  hardly  have 
been  more  surprised  than  I  was  to  see  that  duck 
bound  skyward  with  thumping  wings  at  the  re- 
port of  the  gun. 

But  there  was  little  time  to  reflect  on  the  cause 
of  the  miss,  for  another  wood-duck  came  glisten- 
ing over  the  sunlit  reeds.  I  aimed  at  what 
seemed  the  right  spot  ahead  of  him  and,  with 
more  confidence  than  ever,  pulled  the  trigger. 
Yet  at  the  sound  of  each  barrel  every  shining 
feather  sailed  along  as  smoothly  as  gossamer 
thread  on  the  evening  breeze. 

Scarcely  had  I  loaded,  when  like  a  charge  of 
cavalry  in  bright  uniform,  with  long  green  necks, 
and  heads  gleaming  like  so  many  couched  lances, 
a  flock  of  mallards  streamed  along  the  water  in 
front  of  me.  Though  I  could  see  four  or  five 
heads  in  line  as  I  pulled  the  trigger,  but  one 
duck  fell ;  and  as  the  rest,  unharmed,  climbed  the 
air  with  throbbing  wings  and  I  fired  again  at  one 
of  the  leaders,  he  parted  from  the  flock  with 
wavering  flight,  hung  high  in  air  for  a  second, 
then,  folding  his  wings,  descended  with  a  splash 


98  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

into  the  reeds  on  the  other  side  of  the  pond 
where  it  would  not  pay  to  lose  time  in  looking 
for  him. 

It  soon  became  painfully  evident  that  the  nice 
little  gun  that  had  cost  so  many  guineas  in  Lon- 
don and  had  such  genuine  platinum  ''vents"  in 
the  breech — I  had  tested  them  with  all  the  acids 
then  obtainable — was  a  failure  for  this  kind  of 
game,  although  I  had  done  fine  work  with  it  in 
the  heavy  brush  of  the  Atlantic  coast.  And  my 
feelings  were  not  soothed  by  the  dull  wop  that 
followed  almost  every  roar  of  my  companion's 
gun,  no  larger  than  mine  and  a  cheap  botch  of 
American  pig  iron. 

While  I  was  gazing  into  the  blank  caused  by 
despondency,  two  blue-winged  teal  shot  across 
the  void,  one  about  four  feet  ahead  of  the  other. 
I  tossed  the  gun  ahead  of  the  foremost  bird  at 
about  the  same  distance  I  had  been  used  to 
shooting  ahead  of  quails  and  woodcock  in  brush, 
and  pulled  the  trigger.  The  rear  duck  skipped 
with  a  splash  over  the  water  stone  dead,  while  the 
one  at  which  I  had  aimed  sped  across  the  reeds 
with  unruffled  feather.  I  had  fallen  into  the 
common  error  of  the  tyro  in  duck-shooting  of 


DAYS  AMONG    THE  DUCKS.  99 

underestimating  the  speed  of  a  duck,  and  conse- 
quently the  distance  necessary  to  hold  ahead  of 
it.  Where  I  whirled  the  gun  in  from  behind,  as 
on  the  first  two  ducks,  I  generally  hit  it,  for  the 
motion  of  the  line  of  sight  is  faster  than  that  of 
the  birds.  The  line  of  fire  is  ahead  of  where  it 
actually  seems,  on  account  of  the  time  lost  in 
pulling  the  trigger  and  the  escape  of  the  shot, 
during  which  the  muzzle  of  the  gun  is  moving 
past  the  line  of  the  game.  But  it  took  me  long 
to  hold  far  enough  ahead,  as  well  as  to  learn  that 
I  was  using  too  much  shot  and  too  little  powder 
for  birds  as  tough  as  ducks. 

As  Phcebus  entered  the  home-stretch  and  his 
glowing  chariot  neared  the  gate  of  gilded  clouds, 
the  number  of  ducks  increased  by  the  minute. 
Most  of  those  hitherto  flying  were  ducks  spend- 
ing the  day  in  the  adjacent  sloughs  and  ponds. 
But  now  the  host  that  had  been  feeding  in  the 
great  cornfields  of  the  prairie  began  to  pour  into 
roost,  while  the  vast  army  of  wild  fowl  bound 
farther  south  came  marching  down  the  sky. 
Long  lines  came  widening  out  and  sliding  down, 
and  out  of  the  horizon  rose  dense  bunches,  hang- 
ing for  a  moment  in  the  rosy  sky  then  bearing 


100  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

down  upon  me.  Over  the  bluffs  on  the  west 
where  the  land  rolled  into  the  vast  expanse  of 
the  prairie  they  came,  no  longer  single  spies  but 
in  battalions,  and  swifter  than  the  wind  itself 
thousands  came  riding  the  last  beams  of  the  sink- 
ing sun.  The  sky  above  was  dotted  with  con- 
verging strings  or  wedge-shaped  masses  from 
which  fell  the  sonorous  Honk  of  the  Canada  goose 
or  the  clamorous  cackle  of  brant.  And  in  all  di- 
rections single  ducks,  ducks  in  pairs  and  in  small 
bunches,  were  darting  and  whizzing.  Wilson's 
snipe  was  pitching  about  in  tortuous  flight,  plover 
drifted  by  with  tender  whistle,  blue  herons,  bit- 
terns, and  snowy  egrets  with  long  necks  doubled 
up  and  legs  outstretched,  flapped  solemnly  across 
the  scene,  while  yellowlegs  and  sandpipers  filled 
in  the  openings. 

A  wild  and  wondrous  scene  this  "evening 
flight,"  and  quite  incredible  to-day  the  numbers 
in  which  the  water-fowl  once  thronged  at  night- 
fall the  choice  resorts  of  the  West.  Yet  what  I 
had  so  far  seen  was  but  the  advance-guard  of  an 
army  whose  numbers  were  beyond  concep- 
tion. 

When  I  shot  the  last  of  the  two  blue-winged 


DAYS  AMONG    THE  DUCKS.  IOI 

teal  instead  of  the  foremost  at  which  I  had  aimed, 
I  thought  I  had  discovered  the  secret  of  missing, 
and  that  my  skill  as  a  quick  shot  in  brush  would 
quickly  tell  again,  as  on  the  two  ducks  coming 
from  opposite  directions.  But  the  nerves  that 
felt  only  a  slight  tremor  when  the  ruffed  grouse 
burst  roaring  from  the  shady  thicket  now  quaked 
beneath  the  storm  that  suddenly  broke  from 
every  point  of  the  compass.  I  found  myself  the 
converging  point  of  innumerable  dark  lines, 
bunches,  and  strings  rushing  toward  me  at  dif- 
ferent rates  of  speed,  but  even  the  slowest  fear- 
fully fast.  There  I  stood  bothering  with  a 
muzzle-loader,  my  head  aching  from  the  recoil 
of  the  heavy  charges  I  was  vainly  pouring  into  it, 
registering  on  high  countless  vows  to  hold  a  rod 
or  two  ahead  of  the  next  duck,  yet  shooting  but 
a  few  inches  ahead  before  I  could  think  of  what 
I  was  about,  only  to  see  the  game  whiz  away  up- 
ward unharmed,  and  the  sky  again  darken  around 
me  with  hissing  wings  before  I  could  even  pour 
the  powder  into  the  gun. 

Little  knowing  how  he  was  harrowing  my 
feelings,  my  friend  now  called  out : 

"  Let  everything  go  but  mallards,  and  be  sure 


IO2  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

and  land  them  close  to  your  feet.  They  are  just 
beginning  to  come." 

"Just  beginning!  What  will  the  end  be? 
Already  they  care  nothing  for  the  sight  of  man 
or  gun,  and  sheer  but  little  from  the  spouting 
flame,"  I  thought. 

On  the  sky  the  light  was  shattered  into  a 
thousand  tints,  with  everything  above  the  horizon 
in  clear  outline,  while  over  all  below  rested  a 
pallid  glow  that  intensified  brilliant  colors,  but 
threw  a  weird  gloom  over  somber  shades.  From 
the  departed  sun  rosy  light  radiated  into  the 
zenith,  while  the  upper  sky  on  the  east  was 
changed  by  the  contrast  into  pale  gold  tinged 
with  faded  green.  North  and  south  the  blue 
shaded  into  delicate  olive  tints,  shifting  into 
orange  toward  the  center  of  the  great  dome. 
On  the  east  lay  castles  of  rich  umber  fringed 
with  crimson  fire;  on  the  west  rolled  banks  of 
coppery  gold  and  fleecy  streams  of  lemon-colored 
vapor.  Over  this  stage  now  poured  a  troop  of 
actors  that  made  the  wonders  of  the  last  few 
minutes  seem  a  puppet-show. 

Hitherto  the  ducks  coming  in  to  roost  had 
come  from  near  the  level  of  the  horizon.  But 


DAYS  AMONG    THE  DUCK'S.  1 03 

now  with  rushing,  tearing  sound,  as  if  rending 
with  speed  the  canopy  of  heaven,  down  they  came 
out  of  the  face  of  night.  Dense  masses  of  blue- 
bills,  with  wings  set  in  rigid  curves,  came  winding 
swiftly  down,  with  long  lines  of  mallards  whose 
stiffened  wings  made  the  air  hiss  beneath  them. 
On  long  inclines  and  sweeping  curves  sprigtails 
and  other  large  ducks  rode  down  the  darkening 
air,  while,  swift  and  straight  as  flights  of  falling 
arrows,  blue-winged  teal  fell  from  the  sky, — and 
green-wings  shot  by  in  volleys  or  pounced  upon 
the  scene  with  the  rush  of  a  hungry  hawk.  Geese 
in  untold  numbers  went  trooping  past,  but  most 
of  them  kept  high  in  the  sky  until  over  some  of 
the  larger  lakes,  then  lengthening  their  dark 
lines,  descended  slowly  in  long  spiral  curves. 
White-fronted  geese,  too,  dotted  the  western  and 
northern  skies,  marched  with  faster  wing  and 
more  clamorous  throats  until  over  the  edge  of 
the  larger  ponds,  then,  in  solemn  silence  slowly 
sailing  for  a  few  hundred  feet,  suddenly  resumed 
their  cackle  and,  whirling,  pitching,  tumbling,  and 
gyrating,  every  bird  with  a  different  twist,  down 
they  went  to  the  water  as  fast  as  gravity  could 
take  them. 


104  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

Myriads  of  water-fowl  traveling  from  the  north 
swept  by  without  slackening  a  wing.  Black  in 
the  falling  night  the  head  and  neck  of  the  mal- 
lard were  outstretched  for  another  hundred  miles 
before  stopping.  "  Darkly  painted  on  the  crim- 
son sky,"  the  forked  rudder  of  the  sprigtail  was 
set  for  warmer  regions.  From  where  dark  lines 
of  widgeon  were  streaming  came  down  a  plain- 
tive whistle  that  plainly  said  Good-bye.  Far 
above  all  these  and  still  bathed  in  rosy  light  were 
floating  southward  as  softly  as  flecks  of  down 
long  strings  of  sandhill  cranes,  sending  down 
through  a  mile  or  two  of  air  their  strangely  pene- 
trating notes.  And  even  above  these,  with  swifter 
flight  and  more  rapid  stroke  of  wing  than  seemed 
possible  for  birds  so  large,  snowy  swans  rode  the 
sunlight  of  the  upper  air. 

Yet  of  the  game  that  descended  there  was 
more  than  enough  for  me.  With  trembling  hand 
I  poured  my  last  charge  of  powder  into  the 
heated  gun  and  raised  it  at  a  flock  of  mallards 
gliding  swiftly  toward  me  with  every  long  neck 
aimed  at  my  devoted  head.  Wheeeeeooooooo  shot 
a  volley  of  green-wings  between  the  mallards  and 
the  gun.  Kssssssssss  came  a  mob  of  blue-wings 


DAYS  AMONG    THE  DUCKS.  10$ 

by  my  head  as  I  shifted  the  gun  toward  the 
green  wings.  And  Bbbbbbbbbbbbb  came  a  score 
of  mallards  along  the  reeds  behind  me  as,  be- 
fuddled with  the  whirl  and  uproar,  I  shifted  the 
gun  to  the  blue-wings.  When  I  wheeled  toward 
these  last  mallards,  after  making  a  half-shift  of 
the  gun  toward  the  blue-wings,  they  saw  me  and, 
belaboring  the  air  with  heavy  strokes,  swung 
upward ;  and  as  I  turned  the  gun  upon  them,  a 
brigade  of  blue-bills  with  hissing  wings  rent  the 
air  between  us,  while  behind  me  I  heard  the  air 
throb  again  with  the  wings  of  a  regiment  of  mal- 
lards. The  gun  wabbled  from  the  second  mal- 
lards to  the  blue-bills,  and  then  around  to  the 
last  mallards,  and  finally  illuminated  the  dark- 
ness just  over  my  head  that  the  mallards  had 
filled  when  I  raised  it. 


VII. 

DAYS    ON    THE   ILLINOIS. 

LIKE  the  bottoms  of  other  Western  rivers 
those  of  the  Illinois  were  once  a  great  place  for 
camping.  However  cold  the  night  we  needed 
little  tent,  and  that  only  to  shed  possible  rain ; 
for  driftwood  was  everywhere,  and  piled  high  in 
front  it  filled  the  open  tent  with  light  and  com- 
fort, while  the  glare  shot  across  the  river  until 
the  deaa  cottonwoods  on  the  other  side  looked 
like  imploring  ghosts  reaching  their  arms  heaven- 
ward. Often  by  its  light  we  could  see  the  white 
collars  on  the  geese  drifting  through  the  night 
above,  and  plainly  distinguish  the  glossy  head  of 
the  mallard  as  he  swept  the  tree-tops.  All 
worldly  cares  went  whirling  skyward  in  the  vor- 
tex of  flame  and  sparks,  and  on  the  dark  rotunda 
around  it  fancy  hung  many  a  bright  picture  of 
the  kind  the  sportsman  alone  can  see. 

106 


DAYS   ON   THE   ILLINOIS.  1 07 

Lulled  to  sleep  by  the  cackle  of  flying  brant, 
the  quack  of  mallards  in  the  pond  near  by,  the 
deep  To-whoooo  of  the  great  owl  in  the  tree  be- 
side us,  the  Scaipe  of  wandering  snipe,  the  far- 
reaching  Grrrrrroooooooo  of  sandhill  cranes  trav- 
eling in  the  dome  of  night,  and  the  shrill  quaver- 
ing cry  of  the  raccoon  in  the  timber  behind  us, 
we  rose  at  daybreak  for  the  morning  flight  of 
water-fowl.  Though  this  generally  lacked  the 
bewildering  intensity  of  the  evening  flight,  there 
was  yet  enough  rush  and  bustle  to  upset  a  highly 
respectable  equilibrium. 

Perhaps  a  lone  mallard  opens  the  ball.  Slowly 
winging  his  way  out  of  the  circle  of  gray,  he 
crosses  the  sky  in  dim  outline  above  you.  It  is 
so  dark  there  seems  little  danger  of  his  seeing 
you ;  but  his  wings  begin  to  thump  the  air  with 
extra  force  as  he  climbs  rapidly  out  of  danger. 
He  is  not  quite  quick  enough,  though,  and  at 
the  report  of  your  gun  his  neck  doubles  up  and 
down  he  comes.  On  the  instant  the  air  throbs 
beneath  ten  thousand  wings,  and  a  wild  medley 
of  energetic  quacks,  dolorous  squeals,  melodious 
honks,  and  discordant  cackles  resounds  from  far 
and  near  as  the  myriads  of  ducks,  geese,  and 


108  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

brant  that  have  been  roosting  in  the  ponds  near 
by  rise  into  flight. 

Into  a  hundred  divisions  breaks  the  vast  horde 
of  water-fowl,  each  division  circling  skyward  or 
streaming  over  your  head  without  seeming  to 
know  or  care  whence  came  the  shot  that  alarmed 
them.  As  the  flame  again  darts  upward  from 
your  gun  and  two  or  three  dark  bodies  come 
whirling  downward,  the  circle  of  sky  overhead  is 
for  a  moment  cleared,  while  around  its  margins 
thousands  of  wings  belabor  the  air  until  you  can 
almost  feel  the  earth  tremble.  But  in  a  few 
seconds  more  the  space  above  you  is  again 
thronged  with  rushing  wings. 

Beware  how  you  waste  your  fire  on  this  flock 
of  teal  rising  out  of  the  morning's  gray,  for  just 
behind  them  the  strong  wings  of  a  heavy  flock  of 
mallards  are  pounding  the  air.  Beware,  too,  how 
you  waste  your  fire  even  on  the  mallards,  for  on 
the  right,  and  thrillingly  near,  the  Canada  goose 
winds  his  mellow  horn.  But  how  can  one  reason 
calmly  when  the  hissing  wings  of  a  flock  of  sprig- 
tails  are  heard  before  one's  premises  are  thought 
of,  and  his  conclusion  is  rudely  interrupted  by  a 


DAYS   ON   THE  ILLINOIS.  IOQ 

dark  line  of  blue-bills  pouring  out  of  what  is  left 
of  the  night? 

The  flight  generally  increases  with  every  new 
beam  of  light  that  struggles  through  the  misty 
morning.  No  longer  the  wild-fowl  pounce  upon 
you  from  the  sky  as  in  the  evening  flight,  nor 
do  they  come  out  of  the  north  more  than  from 
any  other  direction.  From  every  point  they 
stream,  with  less  uproar  but  more  majestic  march. 
Over  the  cat-tails  around  you  they  pour  in  dark 
masses,  long  wedge-shaped  strings  or  crescent 
lines  at  tremendous  speed,  while  single  ducks  in 
all  directions  hammer  seventy  miles  an  hour  out 
of  the  rising  breeze. 

When  dawn  has  fairly  set  in,  the  ducks  travel 
higher  and  farther  off,  though  the  flight  may 
continue  strong  and  steady  for  an  hour  or  con- 
siderably more.  The  gun  must  now  be  loaded 
as  heavily  as  your  shoulder  will  permit,  and  held 
farther  ahead  of  crossing  shots.  As  a  flock  of 
mallards  makes  the  air  sing,  so  near  that  you  can 
plainly  mark  the  shading  of  their  gray  bellies 
and  see  the  light  of  the  coming  sun  shine  on  the 
burnished  green,  it  seems  as  if  you  had  only  to 
aim  at  the  tip  of  the  bill.  But  to  your  surprise 


1 10  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

the  bird  you  thus  fire  at  towers  with  thumping 
wings,  while  his  comrades  climb  the  airy  stairs  be- 
hind him  without  sending  even  a  feather  to  com- 
fort you.  And  beware  how  you  let  this  flock  of 
blue-bills  get  too  nearly  over  your  head  before 
you  fire.  Like  dark  spirits  from  the  under- 
world they  come  up  out  of  the  circle  of  reeds 
straight  for  your  head — their  wings  hazy  with 
speed.  You  correct  your  last  mistake  by  shift- 
ing the  gun  ahead  until  the  leader  disappears 
behind  the  barrels.  All  very  well ;  but  you  have 
lost  a  valuable  second,  and  the  birds  are  so  nearly 
over  your  head  when  you  fire  that,  though  the 
leader  whirls  over  dead,  he  falls  on  a  long  slant- 
ing line  into  the  reeds,  so  far  behind  that  you  will 
lose  several  good  shots  in  trying  to  find  him. 

Of  course  there  are  days  on  the  best  grounds 
and  in  the  best  duck  season  when  neither  the 
evening  nor  the  morning  flight  is  very  good, 
though  water-fowl  throng  the  lakes  and  sloughs. 
At  such  times,  when  they  move  at  all  it  is  more 
over  the  water  than  over  the  adjacent  land,  where 
one  can  hide  well  enough  for  a  good  shot.  It  is 
difficult  to  tell  what  is  a  good  duck  day.  But  on 
a  bad  one,  a  big  box  or  barrel  sunk  tc  the  edge 


DAYS   ON   THE  ILLINOIS.  Ill 

of  the  water  in  some  of  the  large  shallow  ponds  of 
the  river-bottoms,  and  fringed  around  the  edges 
with  reeds,  often  afforded  rare  sport.  Often 
flocks  of  mallards  would  skim  the  water  until  the 
green  necks  shone  within  ten  yards  of  the  barrel, 
and  then  as  you  rose  to  shoot  there  was  a  spark- 
ling mixture  of  blue  bars  flashing  on  wings,  glis- 
tening breasts  of  chestnut,  white-banded  tails 
with  curls  of  burnished  green,  of  red  legs  and 
beaded  eyes,  whirling  upward  with  wild  quacking. 
There,  too,  you  could  see  the  geese  wind  slowly 
out  of  the  blue  until  near  the  water,  and  then 
with  silent  wing,  and  every  musical  throat  sud- 
denly hushed,  drift  softly  along  a  few  feet  above 
the  surface  until  you  could  hear  the  soft  hiss  of 
their  sailing  wings  and  see  their  black  eyes 
sparkle  but  a  few  yards  from  you.  And  as  you 
rose  and  looked  along  the  gun,  such  pounding  of 
sheering  wings,  such  confusion  of  white  collars  on 
black  necks,  of  gray  wings  and  swarthy  feet, 
would  crowd  upon  your  eye  as  was  worth  waiting 
long  to  see. 

Though  ducks  in  the  West  do  not  generally 
come  to  decoys  in  autumn  as  well  as  in  spring, 
there  were  many  days  when  they  would  come 


112  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

fairly  well,  especially  the  teal,  wood-ducks,  and 
blue-bills.  Sometimes  during  the  middle  of  the 
day,  when  the  birds  were  flying  too  high  for 
good  pass  shooting,  we  pulled  the  boat  into  a 
blind  of  reeds  or  willows  and  set  out  some  de- 
coys. It  was  a  nice  way  to  wile  away  the  mid- 
dle of  the  day  and  eat  a  lunch  in  comfort,  for 
there  was  rarely  danger  of  being  too  violently 
interrupted,  most  of  the  ducks  ignoring  decoys 
at  this  season.  But  often  a  bite  that  would 
otherwise  have  reached  the  crust  of  a  piece  of 
pie,  so  as  to  leave  nothing  more  necessary  for 
the  next  bite  than  doubling  the  two  remaining 
triangles  together,  had  its  bud  of  promise  rudely 
nipped  by  the  sudden  hiss  of  descending  wings, 
when  all  the  sky  seemed  clear  around  us.  And 
again  a  promising  scratch  of  a  match  was  blighted 
and  the  pipe  dropped  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat 
because  of  a  regiment  of  ducks  swinging  around 
the  bend  on  silent  wing  and  almost  touching  the 
water  about  the  decoys  before  we  saw  them. 
Sometimes  when  we  were  unusually  busy  with 
the  lunch,  or  dozing  afterward,  with  sky  serene 
and  nothing  moving,  a  sudden  splash  among  the 
decoys  would  make  us  jump  for  our  guns,  which 


DAYS  ON   THE  ILLINOIS.  113 

we  would  generally  manage  to  raise  about  the 
time  the  last  duck  was  a  little  too  far.  Often 
Wilson's  snipe  came  trotting  along  the  boggy 
strip  of  shore  beyond  the  reeds,  and  if  we  kept 
perfectly  still  we  could  see  the  little  beauty 
probe  the  mud,  pull  out  worms  and  sling  them 
down  his  marvelous  throat,  that  no  bottomless 
pit  can  rival  in  capacity.  Then  he  would  stand 
a  few  moments  with  a  look  of  sublime  content  in 
his  deep  dark  eye,  and  perhaps  squat  awhile  in 
some  little  tuft  of  grass,  though  he  generally 
wore  a  restless  foot  and  seemed  to  like  change 
quite  well. 

Amusement  on  the  bottoms  of  the  Illinois, 
many  years  ago,  was  by  no  means  limited  to  the 
days  when  the  winged  myriads  were  pouring 
from  the  North.  Hot,  malarious,  and  mosquito- 
ridden  though  it  was,  summer  left  many  a  duck 
behind  to  breed,  instead  of  following  the  main 
army  to  the  North.  When  the  tender  blue  of 
the  iris  began  to  fade  on  the  stalks  of  green  that 
fringed  the  ponds  of  the  bottoms,  the  old  duck 
led  out  some  little  scraps  of  yellow  down  that 
floated  on  the  water  as  softly  as  the  shadows  of 
the  summer  clouds.  While  the  old  one  sought 


114  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

safety  on  high  when  we  came  too  near,  the  little 
ones  went  under  in  a  flash.  Standing  up  in  the 
boat  I  could  plainly  see  the  golden  line  they 
made  in  the  water,  and  the  stream  of  fine  bub- 
bles rising  from  their  course.  Often  I  was  near 
enough  to  see  them  kick  lustily  out  behind  with 
their  little  feet,  and  marvelous  time  they  would 
make,  rising  for  a  moment  to  catch  breath,  and 
then  darting  quickly  under,  until  where  the  pur- 
ple petals  of  the  water-target  were  brightening 
above  its  leaves  they  vanished  in  the  darkening 
water. 

Huge  pickerel  furrowed  the  water  ahead  of 
the  boat  as  it  rode  the  ponds  and  sloughs,  and 
threw  themselves  often  out  of  water  in  a  shining 
curve  in  the  rush  for  some  minnow  on  the  sur- 
face. By  standing  up  in  the  boat  in  some  of 
the  deeper  sloughs  scores  of  bass  could  be  seen 
lying  in  the  depths  with  little  apparent  concern, 
though  darting  away  like  light  at  the  first  motion 
that  indicated  danger.  At  night  the  jack-light 
in  the  head  of  the  boat  revealed  a  strange  popu- 
lation of  buffalo-fish,  sheepshead,  and  other  vari- 
eties, with  great  pickerel  and  stupendous  catfish 
worth  going  far  to  see. 


DA  YS   ON   THE  ILLINOIS.  1 1  5 

From  the  margins  of  the  sloughs  that  every- 
where threaded  the  dense  groves  of  sycamore, 
cottonwood,  and  willow,  the  woodcock  sprung  in 
summer  with  that  mellow  whistle  of  the  wing- 
feathers  that  brings  the  gun  whirling  from  the 
shoulder.  And  from  the  islands  where  the  yel- 
low spike  of  the  golden  club  and  the  bright  red 
of  the  polygonum  illumined  the  shades  of  vines 
that  clambered  over  piles  of  drift,  he  came  twist- 
ing out  in  that  spiral  line  of  brown  that  so 
quickly  finds  the  dense  foliage  above. 

Life  was  so  abundant  in  these  bottoms  at  this 
time  that  one  need  not  be  lonely  even  when  only 
rowing  about  the  sloughs  from  curiosity.  The 
wings  of  the  dove  whistled  on  every  breeze,  and 
blackbirds  in  legions  rose  roaring  from  the  green 
ranks  of  the  reeds.  Hundreds  were  mirrored  in 
the  water  as  they  passed  over  it  or  sat  in  strings 
upon  the  overhanging  branches.  Some  in  bur- 
nished purple  and  bronze,  some  with  red-barred 
wings,  and  others  with  golden  throats,  they  were 
everywhere  from  morning  until  night,  and  as 
tame  as  snowbirds  on  a  winter  morning.  In  the 
depths  of  the  timber,  where  the  hunter  or  fisher- 
man rarely  penetrated,  the  heavy  rattle  of  the 


Il6  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

great  pileated  woodpecker  could  be  heard,  and 
with  care  you  might  get  a  glimpse  of  his  scarlet 
head  and  big  black  body.  For  even  this  early, 
and  though  never  shot  at,  he  was  a  wild  and 
wary  bird,  whose  habits  made  him  peculiarly  at- 
tractive, though  you  did  not  care  to  kill  him. 
The  common  red-headed  woodpecker  was  on 
almost  every  tree  old  enough  to  have  dead  limbs, 
and  his  cheerful  squeal  echoed  everywhere  in 
alternation  with  his  rattling  bill.  Among  the 
tree-tops  flashed  his  brilliant  contrast  of  white, 
black,  and  red,  and  here  and  there  it  was  mingled 
with  the  gold  of  the  high-holder  glimmering 
amid  the  green.  Little  woodpeckers  in  gray 
jackets  with  crests  of  carmine,  fringes  of  red,  and 
bands  of  black  and  white,  squeaked  and  flitted 
here  and  there,  hopped  up  and  down  the  trunks 
with  equal  ease,  and  hitched  themselves  about 
with  tail  and  claws  as  easily  as  the  nut-hatches 
and  creepers.  Everywhere  above  the  water 
could  be  heard  the  noisy  kingfisher's  rattle,  on 
many  a  limb  that  overhung  the  water  gleamed 
his  crested  head,  and  along  the  still  waters  of  the 
sloughs  you  could  see  his  blue  coat  disappear  in 
the  water  with  a  splash,  and  a  fish  shine  in  his 


DA  YS  ON   THE  ILLINOIS.  1 1  / 

bill  as  he  reappeared.  Silent,  on  one  leg,  the 
heron  stood  on  many  a  bar,  and  around  the  edge 
of  many  a  pond  shone  the  snowy  plumage  of  the 
egret,  whose  callow  brood  was  beginning  to  chat- 
ter in  the  top  of  some  lofty  sycamore.  Thrushes 
were  melodious  in  the  shades,  with  kinglets  and 
song-sparrows  twittering  in  the  more  open  places. 
Near  the  timbered  bluffs  that  sometimes  came 
to  the  river,  the  bark  of  the  gray  squirrel  was  a 
common  sound,  and  the  fluffy  yellow  of  the  fox- 
squirrel  outstretched  on  some  big  limb  a  common 
sight. 

And  when  along  the  moist  banks  the  azure 
bloom  of  the  mimulus  began  to  help  out  the 
brilliant  blue  of  the  lobelia,  and  the  wild  cucum- 
ber to  festoon  the  piles  of  drift,  then,  at  almost 
every  turn  in  the  sloughs,  young  ducks,  nearly 
large  enough  to  shoot,  went  flapping  along  the 
water,  scudding  into  the  grass  and  reeds,  or  squeal- 
ing into  the  air  from  almost  every  sand-bar. 
Along  the  river  they  were  strung  like  beads  on 
the  stranded  logs,  and  almost  everywhere  in  the 
long  grass  and  reeds  were  so  many  hiding  at 
your  approach,  instead  of  taking  wing,  that  any 
kind  of  a  dog  that  would  retrieve  would  bring 


Il8  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

joy  to  the  heart  of  the  meat-hunter  without  the 
expense  of  burning  powder.  Soon  along  the 
bars  the  plover  began  to  whistle,  and  before  the 
rose-colored  flowers  of  the  water-plaintain  began 
to  droop,  the  shrill  call  of  the  yellowleg  mingled 
with  the  plaintive  notes  of  the  kildeer.  And 
before  the  white  petals  of  the  arrrowhead  had 
ceased  to  nod  along  the  pools,  Wilson's  snipe  was 
again  trotting  on  the  shore,  and  soon  it  needed 
but  a  few  cold  nights  in  the  far  North  to  bring 
down  the  vanguard  of  the  great  quacking  hordes 
that  would  once  more  make  your  nerves  tremble 
at  the  sinking  of  the  sun. 


VIII. 

THE   WILD    GOOSE. 

MANY  who  have  never  made  his  acquaintance 
think  the  goose  is  not  a  game  bird.  But  one 
need  not  know  him  very  well  to  feel  that  he  is 
quite  worthy  of  his  fire.  Few  birds  are  better 
judges  of  the  range  of  a  gun,  few  eyes  much 
quicker  than  his  to  detect  any  suspicious  motion 
and  see  through  a  flimsy  blind.  Nor  are  there 
many  sounds  that  awake  more  tender  thoughts 
than  the  deep-toned  Honk,  whether  falling  afar 
from  the  sky  as  the  goose  floats  away  south  in 
disdain  of  all  your  quarter  of  the  universe,  or 
sounding  clear  and  penetrating  above  your  tent 
as  he  passes  in  the  dead  of  night,  or  rolling 
toward  every  corner  of  the  sky  as  the  flock 
sheers,  whirls,  and  rises  when  you  move  in  the 
pit  or  blind. 

The  wild  goose  has  been  widely  distributed 

119 


120  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  and  has  made 
abundant  sport  in  every  State  of  the  Union. 
But  nowhere  has  he  been  so  plenty,  spent  so  long 
a  portion  of  the  year,  and  made  such  varied 
shooting  as  in  California.  Before  the  plains  and 
slopes  of  the  southern  part  became  so  covered 
with  vineyards,  orchards,  and  fine  homes,  it  was 
the  favorite  winter  home  of  myriads  of  geese. 
They  dotted  the  spangled  green  of  most  of  the 
larger  plains,  and  in  many  places  made  the  finest 
and  easiest  shooting.  Though  fair  shooting  yet 
remains  in  places,  nothing  can  give  any  idea  of 
the  hordes  of  geese  that  from  the  North  once 
poured  down  to  winter  in  this  sunny  land.  Snow- 
geese,  generally  called  "white  brant,"  were  al- 
most always  in  sight.  Like  lines  of  cloud  they 
streamed  along  the  breast  of  the  distant  moun- 
tain, stood  like  sheets  of  snow  upon  the  green 
of  the  rolling  plain,  or  upon  the  waters  of  the 
lagoon  floated  as  lightly  as  the  reflection  beside 
them  of  the  snowy  peaks. 

The  clanging  cackle  of  the  white-fronted  goose, 
commonly  called  "gray  brant"  or  sometimes 
"  black  brant  "  to  distinguish  it  from  the  "  white 
brant,"  was  as  common  as  the  warbling  of  the 


THE    WILD    GOOSE.  121 

linnet.  Above  the  larger  lagoons,  between  ten 
and  twelve  o'clock  dozens  of  flocks  could  be  seen 
coming  in  from  the  distant  plains,  and  descend- 
ing to  the  water  in  their  peculiar  manner.  Cir- 
cling in  air  perhaps  two  or  three  times,  then 
massing  silently  in  orderly  array,  they  sail  to  a 
point  over  the  water,  setting  their  wings  and 
poising  for  a  second ;  then  every  throat,  tuned  to 
concert  pitch,  opens  at  once.  Then,  sometimes 
dozens  at  once,  they  dive,  tumble,  whirl,  gyrate, 
and  turn  somersault  downwards,  a  thousand  feet 
perhaps,  to  the  surface  of  the  water.  Then 
catching  themselves,  and  closing  in  long  and 
orderly  line,  with  motionless  wing  and  silent 
throat  they  sail  for  many  a  rod  just  above  the 
surface,  and  finally  settle  into  the  water  as  softly 
as  so  many  flakes  of  snow. 

Morning  and  evening,  over  almost  every  hori- 
zon, lines  of  dark  dots  rose  into  the  sky,  and 
from  them  floated  far  over  the  land,  softened  by 
distance  to  wondrous  sweetness,  the  Honk  of  the 
Canada  goose.  Where  the  deep  pink  of  the 
clatonia  smiled  over  the  dense  green  of  the 
springing  clover  stood  long  lines  of  gray  bodies 
with  black  heads  and  white-collared  throats. 


122  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

And  on  the  knolls  where  the  mild  blue-bells 
paled  the  orange  fire  of  the  poppies,  bunch  after 
bunch  of  geese  stood  basking  in  the  sun  of  mid- 
day. But  whether  standing  in  silent  dignity  or 
waddling  about  to  feed  on  the  fernlike  leaves  oi 
the  alfileria,  whose  little  pinkish  stars  lit  up  the 
greensward,  the  goose  was  watching  for  danger 
with  that  keen  eye  that  makes  him  so  respected 
by  those  who  know  him. 

All  lovers  of  the  field  learn  that  plenty  of  game 
does  not  imply  plenty  of  shooting,  any  more  than 
plenty  of  shooting  implies  plethora  of  game- 
pockets.  And  nowhere  have  I  seen  this  truth 
more  apparent  than  when  one  could  often  see 
from  the  window  more  game  than  can  now  be 
seen  in  a  day's  hunt.  Although  quite  simple 
compared  with  the  devices  now  necessary  to  in 
sure  a  near  acquaintance  with  the  wary  goose, 
many  tricks  were  needed  even  then.  It  required 
no  pits  in  the  ground  or  decoys  to  lure  the  birds, 
but  it  was  still  necessary  to  be  well  hidden  when 
lying  in  wait  along  their  line  of  flight.  Often 
you  could  hide  in  the  shade  of  the  heteromeles 
that  rose  ten  or  twelve  feet  in  ever-living  green, 
starred  with  a  thousand  scarlet  berries  as  bright 


THE    WILD    GOOSE,  12$ 

as  those  of  the  mountain  ash.  Where  this  failed, 
the  evergreen  head  of  the  common  sumac  was 
good  enough,  and  often  a  bunch  of  scrubby  live- 
oak  or  even  ramiria  or  sage  would  do.  Or  there 
would  be  a  little  cut  or  shallow  gully  in  which 
one  could  lie  amid  the  pink-veined  white  of  the 
nodding  cowslip  and  the  fragrance  of  golden 
violets. 

Well  concealed  on  a  good  line  of  flight  at  the 
proper  time  of  day,  one  had  rarely  long  to  await 
the  game.  Heralded  by  a  mellow  Honk,  an  out- 
stretched string  of  dark  dots  came  swiftly  toward 
you,  growing  rapidly  larger  as  the  line  widened 
out ;  for  the  goose,  though  seeming  a  slow  flier, 
because  so  large,  is  really  a  bird  of  rapid  flight. 
On  they  came,  with  their  Honk  sounding  clearer 
and  deeper,  until  you  could  hardly  resist  the 
temptation  to  look  around  the  side  of  the  bush 
or  through  its  top  to  see  if  the  game  were  near 
enough.  When  the  liquid  notes  sounded  near, 
it  was  so  natural  to  grasp  the  gun  a  little  tighter 
and  shift  it  just  a  little,  to  have  it  in  the  rignt 
position  for  quick  and  certain  work  when  the 
supreme  moment  should  arrive.  But  lack  of 
patience  was  often  one's  undoing  even  when  the 


124  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

geese  were  very  tame;  for  when  you  saw  the 
dark  line,  with  heavy  Wiff,  wiff,  iviff,  iviff, 
^v^ff  of  wing  and  Honk-onk  k-wonk  onk  konk 
k-ivonk  of  outstretched  throat,  swing  off  just 
enough  to  carry  the  nearest  bird  safely  beyond 
all  reach  of  the  threatened  danger,  you  realized 
that  there  are  some  things  in  hunting  that  always 
repay  their  cost,  and  the  foremost  thereof  is 
patience. 

No  time  for  vain  regrets,  for  where  the  green 
of  the  plain  joins  the  blue  of  the  sky  another 
line  is  rising  into  view,  and  the  clarion-calls  from 
the  center  and  either  end  converge  as  if  the 
whole  line  were  aimed  directly  at  you.  And 
now,  whether  sitting  in  a  bush  or  lying  on  the 
ground,  keep  perfectly  still.  To  know  when  the 
birds  are  near  enough  to  shoot  at,  depend  only 
on  the  sound  of  wings  above,  or  upon  the  metal- 
lic ring  the  Honk  will  have  when  the  game  is  so 
nearly  over  you  that  it  is  impossible  for  it  to 
escape  your  fire.  And  beware  how  you  decide 
this  latter  point ;  for  there  is  no  bird  of  its  size 
that  can  turn  with  more  provoking  ease  than  the 
Canada  goose,  even  when  very  close  and  coming 
swiftly  toward  you. 


THE    WILD    GOOSE.  12$ 

Along  the  sky  the  line  comes  widening  out, 
the  mellow  Honk  deeper  and  clearer,  and  you 
crouch  behind  the  bush,  not  daring  to  show  your 
face  or  move,  while  fancy  pictures  the  manner  of 
their  coming,  and  sees  the  birds  settle  lower 
toward  the  earth  as  they  approach.  And  soon 
you  think  you  can  hear  them  set  their  big  wings 
and  slide  down  the  air  with  their  long  dark  necks 
and  white  throats  almost  over  you.  But  not  yet, 
not  yet !  Now  is  the  critical  time,  the  time 
when  more  shots  are  thrown  away  than  at  any 
other.  For  if  you  rise  a  moment  too  soon,  you 
shall  see  the  line  turned  away  and  just  comfort- 
ably out  of  reach.  Wait  a  moment  more,  and 
you  may  hear  the  tips  of  broad  wing-feathers 
softly  fanning  the  air  above,  and  feel  a  stranger 
depth  in  the  trumpet-tone  that  stirs  a  tumult  in 
your  blood.  And  seldom  shall  you  have  seen 
such  excitement  condensed  into  so  short  a  space 
as  when  you  rise  to  see  the  air  filled  with  big 
thumping  wings  sheering  upward  and  outward 
amid  an  uproarious  Ho-nk-onk-wonk-onk  wonk  ; 
while  at  the  report  of  your  first  barrel  a  whirl  of 
gray  strikes  the  flowery  green,  and  at  the  report 


126  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

of  your  second  another  long  neck  droops,  two 
more  big  wings  are  folded. 

Strange  sights  might  formerly  be  seen  upon 
these  plains,  and  once  I  saw  a  touching  instance 
of  brotherly  love.  A  goose  fell  behind  a  flock 
into  which  my  companion  had  fired,  settling 
lower  with  slower  stroke  of  wing.  Two  other 
geese  fell  back  and,  coming  to  the  side  of  the 
wounded  one,  seemed  trying  to  cheer  and  sustain 
him.  Yet  slower  became  his  stroke  of  wing  and 
lower  he  settled,  with  his  companions  clinging  to 
the  last  hope  of  helping  him.  But  from  above 
a  broad  dark  line  shot  downward  on  a  long  in- 
cline, aimed  directly  at  the  failing  goose.  With 
melancholy  Wonk  his  two  friends  steered  away, 
leaving  him  to  the  eagle  against  which  it  was 
useless  to  try  to  protect  him.  Right  above  the 
goose  the  broad  line  turned  and  shot  away  on 
high ;  foi  the  eagle  had  missed  his  stroke  and, 
with  quick  turn  of  wings,  glanced  far  upward  with 
his  momentum.  Then  catching  himself  in  air  he 
turned  again  and,  shooting  swiftly  down,  reached 
the  victim  as  it  was  settling  into  the  grass. 

On  these  grounds  fine  sport  could  once  be  had 
with  a  rifle.  Care  was  needed  to  make  the  first 


THE    WILD    GOOSE.  12? 

shot  tell,  for  even  when  quite  tame  the  Canada 
goose  displays  a  shocking  lack  of  patience  when  a 
gentleman  attempts  to  find  his  distance  by  trial. 
He  has  also  a  very  impolite  way  of  carrying  with 
him,  even  in  the  most  compact  flock,  a  vast 
amount  of  circumambient  space  that  hungers  for 
lead  in  a  manner  quite  amazing.  Zip — zecoooooo 
goes  the  ball,  glancing  from  the  very  center  of 
the  flock,  with  the  Wiff  wiff  wiff  wiff  wiff  of 
heavy  wings  throbbing  on  your  ear,  and  a  medley 
of  white,  black,  and  gray  rising  into  the  sky 
without  leaving  a  feather  on  the  green.  But  if 
you  have  gauged  the  distance  rightly  and  held 
the  sights  of  the  rifle  closely  on  the  center  of  a 
single  goose,  you  may  hear  perhaps  a  dull  tliup, 
and,  as  the  rest  of  the  flock  starts  skyward  on 
reverberating  wing,  you  may  see  a  gray  body 
stretched  on  the  sod  as  if  smitten  with  a  thunder- 
bolt hissing  hot  from  the  hand  of  Jove. 

Better  than  wandering  over  the  plain  in  search 
of  shots  is  to  sit  behind  a  bush  or  tree  that  nods 
on  the  bank  of  some  pond  where  geese  spend  the 
day.  If  convenient,  have  sticks  in  the  water  at 
different  points,  and  have  the  rifle-sights  adjusted 
to  them  by  trial  before  the  geese  begin  to  come 


128  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

in.  Grass  or  reeds  in  the  water  will  often  do, 
and  if  the  pond  is  not  too  large  you  may  ap- 
proximate the  range  by  firing  at  the  blank 
water.  The  bright  winter  morning  is  scarcely 
half  gone  when,  above  the  hills  that  loom  hazily 
green  in  the  warm  sun,  dark  dotted  lines  begin  to 
rise  and  the  silvery  Honk  rings  along  the  blue 
vault.  Instead  of  pitching  and  tumbling  like 
the  white-fronted  goose,  the  Canada  geese  often 
drift  slowly  down  sometimes  two  thousand  feet 
or  more  on  a  slope  two  or  three  miles  long, 
almost  without  moving  a  wing.  As  they  near 
the  surface  of  the  water  and  spread  their  wings 
on  a  plane  parallel  to  its  glassy  face  every  throat 
for  a  moment  is  hushed,  and  they  sweep  majesti- 
cally but  softly  along  as  if  air  were  buoyant  as 
water.  Then  with  sudden  stroke  of  wing  they 
turn  themselves  half  erect  until  their  underwear 
is  brightly  pictured  in  the  mirror  beneath  and 
the  white  collars  shine  on  their  outstretched 
necks,  with  heavy  splash  settle  into  the  water, 
and  in  a  moment  all  is  still. 

Wop  goes  the  ball  against  the  water,  and 
whe-eeeoooo  it  sings  on  high  after  glancing  from 
its  surface.  Instantly  follows  the  roar  of  heavy 


THE    WILD    GOOSE.  I2Q 

wings  mingled  with  many  a  Honk — onk — honk — 
k-wonk,  and  upward  swings  the  flock,  leaving  the 
smooth  water  unmarred  by  even  a  floating 
feather.  Many  such  a  miss  will  you  score  with 
the  rifle  unless  you  have  many  guides  to  the 
distance  scattered  over  the  pond ;  but  there  is 
often  more  satisfaction  in  seeing  the  ball  strike 
the  water  an  inch,  perhaps,  over  the  back  of  the 
goose  at  which  you  aimed  than  in  killing  one 
with  the  shot-gun. 

For  the  most  condensed  excitement,  driving 
into  a  flock  of  geese  with  a  fast  team,  a  good 
driver,  and  a  light  wagon  always  wore  the  laurel. 
It  could  be  done  only  in  the  days  when  the 
game  had  not  learned  to  fear  a  wagon  much,  and 
even  then  only  with  a  strong  breeze  and  the 
ground  good.  There  were  plenty  of  places 
where  the  ground  was  smooth  enough  for  the 
most  rapid  pace,  and  plenty  of  mustangs  that 
could  fly  over  badger  and  coyote  holes  as  easily 
and  safely  as  the  rising  sun  over  the  valleys. 

Imagine  nearly  an  acre  of  the  plain  half  cov- 
ered with  geese  whose  black  heads  and  white 
throats  rise  in  tier  upon  tier  until  they  look  like 
a  small  army.  They  have  done  feeding,  and  are 


I3O  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

sunning  themselves  until  ready  to  start  for  the 
pond  on  which  they  will  spend  the  warm  hours 
of  midday  floating  on  the  water.  Geese  rise 
against  the  wind,  and,  although  rapid  flyers  when 
once  under  way,  are  slow  in  starting.  If  we  dash 
upon  them  from  the  windward  side,  every  second 
they  lose  in  getting  under  way  will  carry  the 
wagon  ten  or  fifteen  yards  nearer,  and  as  they 
will  try  to  rise  against  the  wind  they  will  lose 
several  seconds  in  the  breeze  now  blowing. 

The  mustangs  are  urged  into  a  fair  trot  on  a 
line  that  will  carry  us  a  hundred  yards  or  more 
to  the  windward  of  the  geese.  Don't  look  at 
the  birds,  nor  intimate  that  you  know  of  their  ex- 
istence or  would  give  a  cent  for  the  whole  flock 
if  you  did.  But  let  every  gun  be  where  it  can 
be  quickly  handled,  and  let  the  driver  have  his 
whip  in  the  same  condition.  And  let  each  man 
keep  his  wits  equally  well  in  hand. 

The  wagon  rolls  along  until  nearly  opposite 
the  geese.  Then  it  is  suddenly  wheeled,  the 
horses  are  lifted  with  a  quick  undercut  of  the 
whip  and  in  a  second  are  in  wild  career  directly 
toward  the  geese.  The  soft  pink  of  the  painted- 
cup  and  the  creamy  heads  of  the  buttercups  fly 


THE    WILD    GOOSE.  1$! 

beneath  the  bouncing  wheels,  the  ground-squirrel, 
in  full  run  for  his  hole,  skips  over  the  burrowing- 
owl'shead,  and  the  chaparral-cock,  distrusting  his 
nimble  legs  in  such  emergency,  breaks  into  re- 
luctant flight,  while  the  geese  begin  to  waddle 
and  crane  their  necks  to  see  what  the  racket  is 
about.  They  are  used  to  horses  and  even 
wagons,  but  not  to  such  a  runaway  pace.  By 
the  time  the  wagon  is  within  seventy  yards  of 
them  they  suspect  something  is  the  matter.  By 
the  time  it  has  bounced  over  the  next  twenty 
they  are  sure  of  it.  In  another  moment,  with 
many  a  Ilonk-onk-wonk,  they  are  in  the  air. 

But  as  they  can  rarely  resist  the  habit  of 
rising  toward  the  wind, — the  side  from  which  we 
are  descending  upon  them, — a  moment  is  lost 
during  which  the  wagon  covers  another  twenty 
yards.  There  is  nothing  left  the  game  but  to 
whirl  over  backward,  out  sideways  and  upwards. 
But  by  the  time  they  discover  their  mistake  and 
try  to  rectify  it  another  moment  is  lost.  Before 
you  know  it  you  are  perhaps  under  the  very 
middle  of  a  wildly  flapping  and  climbing  medley 
of  dark  gray  wings  and  screaming  throats  out- 
stretched towards  all  the  points  of  the  compass. 


132  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

If  not  very  careful  you  may  be  too  late  to 
shoot.  Vain  is  any  thought  of  stopping  the 
wagon  to  allow  you  to  take  aim.  The  driver 
could  not  stop  it  in  time  if  he  would :  and  he 
will  have  his  hands  full  to  stop  it  in  time  to  save 
your  bones  anyway,  for  the  horses  are  in  runaway 
speed.  You  must  hold  yourself  in  place  and 
shoot  as  best  you  can  before  too  near  the  center 
of  the  flock.  You  must  be  a  good  shot  from  a 
running  horse  or  wagon,  and  quite  able  to  keep 
your  balance,  mental  as  well  as  physical.  Amid 
a  general  slam-bang-rattle-ty-bang  you  toss  the 
gun  to  your  shoulder,  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
end  in  line  with  something  like  revolving  gray, 
and  pull  the  trigger.  For  a  second  it  seems  as 
if  the  universe  were  whirling  around  you  as  one 
of  the  great  birds  falls  with  heavy  thump  on  the 
back  of  one  of  the  horses,  with  another  gyrating 
almost  into  the  wagon,  while  hundreds  more  are 
climbing  with  clamorous  throats  toward  the  dome 
of  heaven  as  you  rush  on  beneath  at  a  pace  that 
is  quite  alarming. 


IX. 

THE  AMERICAN   CRANES. 

BY  many  the  sand-hill  crane  and  the  whoop- 
ing crane  are  confounded  with  herons  and  bit- 
terns. But  neither  kind  has  anything  in  common 
with  them  except  some  resemblance  in  shape. 
Where  they  can  get  plenty  of  grain  or  grass  the 
cranes  seem  to  touch  nothing  else.  When  fat- 
tened on  wheat,  barley,  corn,  or  cotton-seed,  or 
even  on  good  grass,  either  can  be  sure  of  the 
sincere  regards  of  any  epicure. 

As  game-birds  they  command  the  unbounded 
respect  of  all  who  know  them.  In  keenness  of 
sight  no  bird  but  the  turkey  and  the  whoop- 
ing crane  equals  the  common  sand-hill ;  in  knowl- 
edge of  the  range  of  a  gun  or  rifle  he  is  equaled 
only  by  the  whooping-crane,  and  there  is  reason 
to  think  he  is  gifted  with  ears  almost  as  keen  as 
those  of  the  deer.  Like  all  other  game  these 

133 


134  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME, 

birds  may  in  some  spots  or  at  some  times  be  found 
tamer  than  usual.  But  such  are  the  rare  excep- 
tion, and  they  will  generally  try  the  utmost 
caution  of  the  sportsman ;  while  the  whooping- 
crane  is  perhaps  the  last  of  all  the  game  of 
America,  feathered  or  furred,  that  one  who 
knows  him  would  contract  to  furnish  a  specimen 
of  within  a  given  time. 

The  mellow  call  of  Bob  White  is  heard  no 
more  upon  the  piairie,  and  the  silvery  tones  of 
the  upland  plover  die  away  in  the  far  south  be- 
fore the  sand-hill  comes.  He  comes  when  the 
burnished  green  of  the  mallard's  head  shines  in 
the  prairie-slough,  when  the  deep-toned  Honk  of 
the  Canada  goose  is  heard  on  high,  and  the 
pinnated  grouse  in  bands  of  hundreds  sweep  for 
miles  at  a  single  flight  over  the  rolling  expanse. 
The  best  shooting  is  from  pits  on  stubbles,  and 
in  the  great  fields  of  corn  that  follow  the  first 
settlement  of  the  prairie.  It  is  generally  too 
difficult  to  approach  the  birds,  for  on  open  plain 
it  is  useless  to  try  to  crawl  within  range,  and 
even  when  they  alight  along  some  slough  it  is 
quite  difficult  to  get  within  sure  rifle-range,  even 
under  cover  of  slough-grass.  The  crane  is  no 


THE  AMERICAN  CRANES.  135 

believer  in  the  rose  business,  and  as  soon  as  the 
desert  begins  to  blossom  he  is  done  with  it 
forever. 

On  the  Pacific  coast  the  sand-hill  crane  was 
once  very  abundant.  Stupendous  flocks  dotted 
the  plains  and  slopes  in  winter.  Far  and  wide 
where  the  sunlight  played  upon  a  thousand 
shades  of  green  they  stood  upon  the  rising 
knolls,  now  blue,  now  almost  white,  according 
to  the  play  of  light,  but  always  watching  for 
danger.  By  night  their  rolling  notes  fell  from 
the  stars  with  unearthly  vibration,  and  by  day, 
with  broad  wings  and  long  necks  outstretched, 
they  floated  across  the  blue  dome  with  such  easy 
grace  and  so  high  above  all  other  birds  that  they 
seemed  to  belong  rather  to  heaven  than  earth. 

Some  of  the  finest  shooting  here  used  to  be  in 
San  Jos£  Del  Valle,  an  old  Mexican  grant  of 
fifty  thousand  acres  lying  three  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea  and  about  sixty  miles  northeast  of 
San  Diego. 

It  was  about  half  open  valley  and  half  rolling 
slope,  partly  covered  with  thin  chemisal  mixed 
with  juniper  and  bush  live-oak,  but  on  the  more 
level  portions  was  plenty  of  grass  with  large 


GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

lagoons,  that  made  this  rancho  a  favorite  winter 
home  of  water-fowl  and  cranes.  On  the  south, 
two  thousand  feet  higher,  towered  Mount  Volcan, 
golden  on  the  ridges  with  the  wild  oats  and 
grass  of  the  last  season,  blue  along  the  sides 
with  dense  chaparral,  and  darkly  green  upon  the 
top  with  pine,  live-oak,  and  silver  fir.  On  the 
northwest  Mount  Palomar  rose  still  higher,  in  a 
long  ridge  clad  in  cedar,  pine,  fir.  and  oak,  above 
heaving  swells  of  blue  and  gold ;  on  the  west 
Mesa  Grande  rose  in  a  terrace  of  green  on  which 
the  live-oaks  bowed  like  the  trees  in  some  old 
apple-orchard ;  and  on  the  east  the  tall  Coyote 
Mountains,  robed  in  chaparral  with  occasional 
parks  of  live-oaks  in  some  little  basin,  or  grove  of 
sycamore  around  a  spring,  looked  down  from  six 
thousand  feet  upon  the  scene. 

Over  such  a  horizon-line,  heralded  by  their 
penetrating  tremolo,  huge  flocks  of  cranes  set 
their  wings,  and  in  long  lines,  bluish  gray 
against  the  somber  background  of  cedar  and  fir 
that  filled  the  heads  and  sides  of  the  great 
gulches  of  the  mountains,  drifted  slowly  down 
toward  you.  And  when  they  had  settled  to 
where  the  blue  chaparral  formed  the  background, 


THE  AMERICAN   CRANES.  137 

and  those  wild  tones  rang  clearer  and  more 
searching,  you  grasped  the  gun  with  tighter  grip 
though  the  game  was  still  a  mile  or  two  away. 
No  other  bird  has  so  much  pomp  and  circum- 
stance about  its  movements ;  and  when,  instead 
of  coming  directly  down,  the  cranes  swept  around 
the  amphitheater  in  miles  of  spiral,  while  the 
long  Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrooooo,  growing  ever  nearer 
and  more  penetrating,  was  answered  by  more 
cranes  over  the  mountain-tops,  you  felt  very 
much  as  you  felt  when  first  you  heard  the  hounds 
open  in  full  cry  and  the  ringing  racket  came 
ever  louder  toward  the  runway  where  you 
were  stationed. 

Well  hidden  in  the  grass  or  reeds  on  the  line 
of  flight,  you  had  not  long  to  wait,  in  the  morn- 
ing or  evening,  before  some  of  the  numerous 
flocks  were  bearing  down  upon  you.  Then  if 
you  could  resist  the  temptation  to  twist  your 
head,  or  to  shift  the  gun  to  get  it  into  better 
position,  and  could  lie  perfectly  still  until  you 
hear  the  broad  wings  winnow  the  air  above,  you 
might  with  each  barrel  of  your  gun  send  one  of 
these  huge  birds  whirling  to  earth  in  a  huddle  of 
long  legs,  necks,  and  outstretched  wings  that 


138  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

looked  sometimes  as  if  the  whole  sky  were  fall- 
ing on  you. 

When  the  Grrrrrrrrrrrroooo  came  thick  and 
fast  at  night  and  you  could  see  the  tops  of  the 
mountains  shining  in  robes  of  snow  over  which 
the  pine,  fir,  and  cedar  in  long  lines  stood  guard, 
the  moon  full-orbed  looking  down  from  a  sky  of 
peerless  purity,  with  cranes  glimmering  like 
spirits  among  the  twinkling  stars,  it  were  strange 
if  you  did  not  go  to  where  they  were  visible. 
But  even  then  great  care  had  to  be  taken,  for  the 
sand-hill  crane  can  see  any  unusual  thing  at  night 
farther  than  almost  any  other  bird,  and  takes  no 
chances  when  judging  of  the  range  of  a  gun. 
Even  at  night  the  surest  way,  if  you  have  no  pit 
or  good  cover  in  which  to  hide,  is  to  lie  upon  the 
ground,  in  some  hollow  if  possible,  face  down- 
ward and  with  the  gun  beneath  you  and  so  hidden 
that  no  light  can  shine  from  it.  Few  moments 
are  more  exciting  than  those  spent  in  such  a 
position,  with  the  wild  chorus  trilled  by  a  score 
of  throats  growing  nearer  and  clearer  by  the 
moment,  while  you  dare  not  look  even  out  of 
the  corner  of  your  eye.  With  every  resounding 
note  you  tighten  your  grasp  upon  the  gun  and 


THE  AMERICAN  CRANES.  139 

listen  more  intently  for  the  sound  of  wings  from 
which  to  determine  the  proper  time  to  spring  to 
your  feet.  No  easy  thing  to  contain  yourself 
when  those  piercing  tones  reverberate  within  a 
hundred  yards !  But  when  you  hear  the  soft 
fanning  of  the  air  above,  and  jump  as  you  never 
jumped  before,  the  troupe  of  actors  that  throngs 
the  moonlit  stage  is  worth  coming  far  to  see. 
Scores  of  birds  larger  than  geese,  pouring  a  flood 
of  the  most  far-reaching  sound  that  rolls  from 
living  throat,  are  wheeling  and  sheering  across 
the  starry  night,  with  the  moonlight  glancing 
from  many  a  dagger-beak  and  many  a  waving 
wing.  And  then  if  you  have  your  nerve  with 
you,  one  comes  whirling  down  almost  upon  your 
head  at  the  report  of  the  first  barrel,  and  as  the 
flame  spouts  upward  from  the  second  another 
parts  from  the  rest  of  the  flock  as  they  vanish 
darkling  into  the  night. 

Nowhere  have  I  seen  the  two  cranes  so  abun- 
dant and  tame  as  on  the  great  desert  of  northern 
Mexico  known  as  Bolson  de  Mapimi.  In  the 
northeastern  corner  of  the  state  of  Durango  are 
thousands  of  acres  of  this,  in  corn  and  cotton,  irri- 
gated from  the  river  Nases.  North  and  east 


140  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

vast  plains  stretch  hundreds  of  miles,  and  on  the 
west  high  into  the  sky  rise  ragged  mountains. 
When  I  was  first  there  the  sound  of  a  gun  was 
almost  unheard  on  this  wide  area,  and  the  sand- 
hill crane,  fat  and  lazy  on  cottonseed  and  corn, 
swung  here  and  there  across  the  scene  with  an 
easy  grace  that  gave  little  indication  of  how  sharp 
he  could  be  when  "  wanted."  Along  the  horizon 
his  tribe  streamed  in  thousands,  now  almost 
white  against  the  background  of  bare  mountains, 
now  bluish  where  they  sailed  low  along  the  top  of 
the  corn  or  cotton  so  that  the  sun  could  play 
upon  their  backs,  now  dark  where  the  course 
lay  across  the  sky  that  here  smiles  the  winter 
through. 

Here  too,  in  greater  numbers  than  I  have  ever 
seen  elsewhere,  was  the  whooping-crane,  beside 
which  the  common  sand-hill,  with  all  his  sharp- 
ness, is  but  a  gosling.  Though  sometimes  found 
in  company  with  the  sand-hill,  the  whooping- 
crane  is  generally  contented  with  himself  and 
keeps  clear  of  all  entangling  alliances.  He  usu- 
ally avoids  the  sand-hill,  as  if  he  did  not  think 
him  smart  enough  to  associate  with.  Larger 
than  the  other  by  some  eight  or  ten  inches  in 


THE  AMERICAN  CRANES.  141 

extent  of  wing  and  six  or  eight  inches  in  length, 
of  snowy  whiteness  that  rivals  that  of  the  swan 
except  where  several  inches  of  black  tip  the 
broad  wings,  the  whooping-crane  when  floating 
in  the  bright  sunlight  of  the  winter  here  is  the 
most  graceful  of  all  large  American  game-birds. 

Circling  much  of  the  time  so  far  in  the  zenith 
that  he  seems  but  a  bit  of  down,  and  sending 
through  miles  of  air  a  note  both  wild  and  strange, 
but  ringing  as  the  blast  of  a  silver  horn,  it 
seems  almost  a  hopeless  task  to  get  a  shot  at 
one.  I  had  shot  them  before  with  the  rifle,  but 
to  get  within  shot-gun  range  had  always  been 
too  great  a  problem  for  all  the  care  I  could 
exert.  But  they,  too,  have  the  common  in- 
firmity, and  in  the  afternoon  came  winding  down 
out  of  the  sky  in  leagues  of  spiral,  and  in  the 
evening  and  morning  were  drifting  along  the 
corn  and  cotton  and  settling  into  the  fields  to 
feed  wherever  it  seemed  safe. 

One  morning  they  were  flying  low  over  some 
corn  into  which  the  water  from  the  ditch  had 
been  lately  turned ;  the  cranes  and  water-fowl 
being  crazy  about  the  fields  that  are  lately  wet. 
The  stalks  stood  dense  and  tall,  as  they  generally 


142  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

are  on  irrigated  land,  and  on  a  bit  of  the  driest 
ground  I  made  a  bed  of  corn-stalks.  Upon  this 
I  stretched  face  downward  with  the  gun  beneath 
me,  coat-collar  turned  up  and  cap  drawn  back  so 
as  to  conceal  neck  and  hair,  and  had  a  peon 
cover  me  with  corn-stalks  and  leave  me  to  my- 
self and  patience. 

How  easy  it  seems  to  talk  of  patience !  Noth- 
ing was  harder  to  exercise.  Hardly  had  the 
sound  of  the  peon's  feet  ceased,  than  the  wings 
of  big  mallards  were  pounding  the  air  so  close 
that  the  whistling  of  the  tips  of  their  wing- 
feathers  was  plain.  Scarcely  were  these  past, 
when  the  soft  hiss  of  the  sailing  wings  of  canvas- 
backs  in  easy  flight  took  their  place,  as  in  un- 
suspicious serenity  of  soul  they  came  lazily  in  to 
alight.  Then  sounded  the  wings  of  a  huge 
bunch  of  sprig-tails  settling  into  a  pool  of  water 
in  the  corn  close  beside  me,  while  the  canvas- 
backs  alighted  on  some  dry  ground  about  equally 
near  and  began  hunting  for  corn  that  had  been 
shelled  in  husking.  Hard,  too,  was  the  tempta- 
tion when  the  stiff  set  wings  of  large  bunches  of 
blue-bills  rent  the  air  with  sharp  hiss  as  they 
descended.  And  almost  equally  hard  to  look 


THE  AMERICAN  CRANES.  143 

out  in  front  and  see  Wilson's  snipe  running 
about  a  few  feet  from  me,  probing  the  soft  mud 
with  his  long  bill,  and  in  the  water  see  the  re- 
flection of  long  strings  of  the  glossy  ibis  as  they 
sailed  along  above.  And  how  much  harder  to 
lie  there  and  hear  the  searching  Grrrrrrrrrrroooo 
come  long  drawn  and  rolling  from  every  quarter, 
increasing  by  the  moment,  and  soon  hear  the 
light  stroke  of  fanlike  wings  while  the  long 
raucous  windpipes,  but  a  few  feet  above,  rolled 
their  wild  notes  like  the  rattle  of  the  thunder- 
bolt ! 

But  I  let  them  all  go  unshot  at,  for  one  shot 
along  the  line  of  flight  of  the  whooping-crane  is 
quite  certain  to  settle  the  prospects  for  that 
morning;  and  I  lay  there  listening  to  the  whiz  of 
teal  and  the  cackle  of  brant  until  there  came  a 
trumpet-note  so  wildly  sweet  that  I  almost  held 
my  breath.  It  had  been  sounding  all  the  time  I 
had  been  here,  but  with  the  illusive  penetration 
that  distance  gives  and  which  I  had  long  learned 
to  estimate.  But  now  with  ringing  clearness  it 
came — a  sound  unlike  any  other  on  earth,  and 
one  that  few  sportsmen  or  naturalists  have  ever 
heard  often  enough  even  to  describe. 


144  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

Like  hours  seemed  the  few  minutes  I  had  to 
await  the  coming  of  the  makers  of  that  strange 
sound,  and  when  at  last  my  straining  ear  caught 
the  soft  winnowing  of  the  air  in  front  and  a 
little  on  one  side,  slower  too  and  softer  than  that 
of  the  sand-hill's  wing,  I  could  scarcely  contain 
myself  for  the  instant  necessary  to  let  them  come 
so  close  that  they  could  not  sheer  out  of  the, 
way  when  I  rose.  I  stood  it  for  another  second, 
and  then  as  the  sound  came  clearer  just  over  me 
I  sprung  as  never  before. 

Scarce  thirty  feet  above,  the  air  was  filled  with 
white  birds  as  large  as  swans,  with  necks  as  long, 
and  broader  and  whiter  wings  barred  on  the  ends 
with  jet,  climbing  heavenward  and  sheering  for 
all  points  of  the  compass  at  the  same  time,  while 
the  sun  shone  on  soft  carmine  heads  and  dark 
green  bills  like  gleaming  swords,  from  which 
poured  a  volley  of  sound  like  the  mingling  of  a 
score  of  bugles.  It  seemed  wicked  to  spoil  any- 
thing so  rare  and  so  beautiful  as  that  sight ;  but 
if  I  had  had  time  to  think,  I  could  have  consoled 
myself  with  the  reflection  that  it  is  scarcely  once 
in  a  lifetime  that  one  gets  a  chance  to  make  a 
double  shot  on  this  wild  thing,  and  rare  enough 


THE  AMERICAN  CRANES.  H5 

is  it  to  get  a  single  shot.  At  the  report  of  the 
first  barrel  one  with  folded  wings  and  drooping 
neck  turned  its  course  into  a  downward  plunge, 
and  with  the  second  another  relaxed  its  hold  on 
the  warm  sunlight  and,  with  legs  outstretched 
below,  long  neck,  and  bill  pointing  skyward,  and 
extended  wings  nearly  joined  at  the  tips  above, 
descended  in  a  revolving  whirl  of  white,  black, 
and  carmine. 


X. 

DAYS  AMONG   THE   PLOVER. 

NEXT  to  Wilson's  snipe  no  small  bird  has  such 
attraction  for  the  sportsman  as  the  upland  plover. 
It  seems  but  yesterday  its  strange  call  first  fell 
upon  my  childish  ear,  and  made  me  stop  and 
scan  the  horizon  long  before  discovering  far  on 
high  this  little  wisp  of  life  speeding  across  the 
dome  of  blue  as  if  a  messenger  of  Jove. 

In  the  Western  States  the  upland  plover  a  few 
years  ago  was  so  tame  there  was  no  pleasure  in 
hunting  it.  But  on  the  Atlantic  coast,  as  far 
back  as  1855,  it  was  the  wildest  of  all  wild  things. 
Few  birds  were  more  sought,  and  for  few  were  as 
many  miles  so  willingly  traversed. 

When  the  bugloss  spread  its  blue  across  the 
pastures,  and  the  air  was  redolent  of  mint ;  when 
the  mutterings  of  thunder  were  over,  and  silvery 
clouds  hung  low  along  the  horizon  ;  when  a  softer 

146 


DAYS  AMONG    THE  PLOVER,  Itf 

stillness  lingered  in  the  groves,  and  a  milder 
radiance  played  along  the  hills — do  you  not 
remember  those  days?  Can  you  forget  how 
something  like  the  whisper  of  an  angel  in  a  silver 
flute  struck  a  strange  chord  within,  and,  while  you 
stood  wondering  whether  it  fell  from  the  sky  or 
came  from  below  the  horizon's  verge,  you  saw  a 
little  scrap  of  gray  whisking  from  the  grass,  far  out 
of  reach,  and  aimed  for  the  stars?  And  then 
louder,  clearert  yet  even  softer  than  before,  fell 
again  that  strange  ripple  of  sound  that  putc  to 
shame  the  wonders  of  acoustics,  beside  which 
ventriloquism  is  ridiculous  and  whispering-gal- 
leries contemptible.  So  near  it  seemed  in  its 
liquid  purity  that  you  expected  to  see  another 
bird  rising  from  the  grass  within  easy  shot ;  and 
as  you  saw  nothing,  there  came,  more  tender  yet, 
even  clearer  and  nearer  than  before,  another 
pearly  triplet  of  tone,  as  if  another  bird  had  risen 
at  your  feet.  Can  so  much  energy  be  lodged  in 
that  bit  of  frail  machinery,  that  under  the  edge 
of  yon  distant  cloud  seems  to  need  all  its  power 
to  maintain  its  velocity?  How  can  sound  so 
light  be  so  far-reaching,  or  tone  so  sweet  traverse 
space  like  the  thunderbolt  with  so  little  loss  of 


148  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

power  ?  So  I  used  to  wonder;  yet  it  made  me 
love  the  little  bird  the  more.  I  loved  the  young 
robin  whose  spotted  breast  was  turning  red,  the 
bobolink  whose  bubbling  joy  was  almost  hushed 
in  the  meadow,  the  doves  that  from  the  stubbles 
rose  with  whistling  wing,  the  highholders  pitch- 
ing from  one  wild  cherry-tree  to  another,  and 
the  young  meadow-lark,  whose  breast  of  jet  and 
gold  was  now  nearly  as  bright  as  that  of  his 
father.  All  these  for  me  in  boyish  days  were 
game,  but  I  lost  almost  all  interest  in  them  when 
I  saw  that  little  film  of  gray  trailing  over  the  late 
summer  sky,  and  caught  those  pearls  of  sound 
that  only  one  little  throat  can  string. 

When  about  sixteen  I  started  from  the  house 
for  a  short  stroll  before  dinner,  and  took  my  gun 
along  with  only  the  two  loads  that  were  in  it, 
expecting  to  see  but  a  lark  or  highholder  at  best. 
Nearly  a  mile  from  the  house  I  left  the  road  and 
turned  into  an  old  pasture  to  look  for  black- 
berries. I  strolled  along  where  the  white  and 
blue  of  the  morning-glory  were  twining  over  the 
gold  of  the  cinquefoil,  when  suddenly  I  heard  a 
triplet  of  melody  so  soft  it  seemed  to  fall  through 
a  mile  of  air.  As  I  looked  toward  the  vault  of 


DAYS  AMONG    THE  PLOVEK,  149 

heaven,  expecting  to  see  a  little  speck  among  the 
clouds,  a  bit  of  gray  flitting  over  some  corn  be- 
yond a  fence  scarce  twenty  yards  away  caught 
my  eye.  Quickly  the  gun  was  whirled  from  my 
shoulder  toward  it,  and  when  the  smoke  cleared 
nothing  was  there  but  the  corn  waving  darkly 
green. 

As  if  rebounding  fiom  heaven,  that  sweet  call 
echoed  and  re-echoed  as  I  crossed  the  fence,  and 
half  a  dozen  more  scraps  of  gray  started  from  the 
corn.  I  landed  from  the  fence  in  time  to  stop 
the  last  one,  and  might  have  done  so  but  for  the 
reflection  that  there  was  but  one  load  in  the  gun 
and  no  ammunition  in  my  pocket.  So  anxious 
was  I  that  I  fired  a  little  too  quickly,  and  above 
the  edge  of  the  smoke  the  bird  went  sailing  sky- 
ward. But  disappointment  vanished  as  I  saw 
one  of  the  first  birds  settle  into  the  corn  some 
three  hundred  yards  away,  with  two  more  wheel- 
ing around  to  follow  him.  Three  corn-fields 
joined  here,  making  one  large  piece  a  little  over 
waist-high.  The  birds  were  probably  young 
ones  bred  in  the  adjoining  fields,  and  had  gone 
into  the  corn  to  escape  the  heat,  and  there  were 
doubtless  more  there. 


1$0  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

So  I  reasoned  as  I  flew  across  the  fields  for 
more  ammunition.  The  scarlet  of  the  catch-fly 
and  the  opening  bloom  of  the  golden-rod  seemed 
a  stream  of  fireworks  from  my  speed,  and  it  was 
but  a  few  minutes  before  I  was  returning  out  of 
breath. 

Only  a  few  steps  beyond  where  I  had  picked  up 
my  first  bird,  a  faint  haze  of  gray  mottled  with 
brown  and  black  rose  out  of  the  corn  with  that 
mysterious  note  that  always  raised  havoc  in  my 
young  nerves.  It  brought  my  gun  so  quickly  to 
my  shoulder  that  before  I  knew  it  off  it  went. 
So  did  the  gray,  speeding  away  upward,  and 
joined  farther  on  by  two  new  lines  of  gray  amid 
a  full  chorus  of  strange  melody.  Where  is  an- 
other such  moment  as  when  you  glance  along  the 
gun  and  see  for  a  twinkling  that  you  have  raised 
it  on  the  exact  spot  where  it  should  be?  In  a 
second  more  I  saw  the  gray  clear-cut  against  the 
distant  sky  and  in  exact  line  with  the  gun.  It 
vanished  for  an  instant  in  the  smoke  of  my 
second  barrel,  to  appear  below  in  a  soft  whirl  of 
gray,  white,  and  brown  gyrating  to  earth,  while 
its  two  companions  sped  away  on  high,  their 


DAYS  AMONG    TJf£  PLOVER  I$I 

notes  falling  louder  and  sweeter  as  they  fringed 
the  clouds. 

As  I  reloaded  all  was  silent  except  the  song- 
sparrow  warbling  in  the  fragrant  sassafras,  or  the 
wren  twittering  his  late  piece  in  the  blackberry- 
bushes  ;  but  before  I  had  gone  far  there  was  an- 
other wild  yet  tender  triplet  of  sound  somewhere 
on  land  or  sky,  and  I  swung  the  gun  half  around 
the  horizon  before  I  discovered  two  plover  clear- 
ing the  top  of  the  corn  scarce  twenty-five  yards 
away.  A  double  shot  at  the  upland  plover  was  a 
thing  we  scarcely  dared  dream  of.  And  a  double 
shot  at  anything  was  not  easy  for  a  boy  of  my 
age  in  those  days.  We  were  not  born  of  flame, 
swaddled  with  powder- smoke,  and  tutored  by 
thunder  as  many  "professionals"  are  to-day. 
We  never  shot  at  anything  but  game,  for  ammuni- 
tion cost  money,  and  the  loading,  and  especially 
the  cleaning,  of  a  muzzle-loader  bore  a  painful 
resemblance  to  work.  Nor  did  we  see  the  vast 
importance  of  making  machines  of  ourselves,  cr 
we  should  have  been  better  shots.  But  here  the 
chance  for  a  double  shot  on  this  wild  bird  stared 
me  in  the  face  with  dazzling  certainty.  Too 
often  has  such  delightful  assurance  upset  the 


IS2  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

repose  of  soul  necessary  to  utilize  the  opportunity. 
But  not  this  time ;  for  scarcely  did  the  first  bird 
sink  into  the  green  at  the  report  of  the  first  barrel 
than  the  gun  was  turned  upon  the  second  career- 
ing upward,  as  if  bound  for  some  other  sphere. 
In  line  with  the  two  barrels,  the  gray  glimmered 
for  an  instant,  and  then,  as  I  pulled  the  trigger, 
it  folded  its  wings  and  fell. 

Congratulating  myself  on  that  shot,  and  stoop- 
ing low,  I  moved  down  the  rows  of  corn  again, 
little  thinking  how  soon  I  was  to  make  another 
"  handsome  double."  Before  I  had  gone  a  hun- 
dred yards  another  plover  cleared  the  corn  within 
easy  reach.  It  took  me  so  by  surprise  that 
the  first  barrel  wrecked  the  hopes  of  a  promising 
pumpkin  on  the  ground  below  it,  and  the  second 
ventilated  the  waving  corn-leaves  on  one  side  of 
it,  while  the  bird  climbed  the  summer  breeze 
with  never  a  feather  marred,  and  on  the  wings  of 
its  silvery  song  bore  away  toward  the  zenith. 

There  was  still  plenty  of  corn  left,  and  on  I 
went  to  repair  my  shattered  pride.  I  had 
scarcely  gone  fifty  yards  before  two  plover  rose. 
They  were  a  little  far,  but  I  turned  the  first  one 
over  and  fringed  the  leaves  of  the  corn  around 


DAYS  AMONG    THE  PLOVER.  1$3 

the  second ;  and  hardly  had  I  gone  a  hundred 
feet  beyond  where  the  first  one  fell,  when,  to  my 
astonishment,  three  more  birds  rose  at  about 
twenty-five  yards.  In  less  than  an  hour  from  the 
time  I  crossed  the  fence  I  had  sixteen  plover,  all 
well-grown  birds  and  in  fine  condition. 

As  suddenly  as  it  began,  the  shooting  stopped. 
It  was  too  good  to  last.  Here  and  there  across 
the  sky  and  along  the  horizon's  farthest  rim  a 
thread  of  gray  was  winding  out  of  sight,  while, 
from  no  one  could  tell  where,  came  that  soft, 
searching  sound  that  seemed  never  so  sweet  as 
when  all  hope  of  another  shot  was  gone.  But  no 
more  gray  rose  above  that  corn,  and  vainly  on 
the  next  day  did  I  tramp  it  until  it  needed  rc- 
hoeing  to  insure  half  a  crop.  The  birds  were 
once  more  themselves,  and  my  luck  was  one  of 
those  accidents  of  the  field  that  seldom  befall. 

Golden  plover  made  themselves  attractive  by 
filling  a  serious  gap  in  the  shooting  of  the  year. 
They  used  to  visit  the  plowed  fields  far  back 
from  the  Atlantic  coast,  and  furnish  fine  sport 
where  now  no  wing  is  seen  or  whistle  heard. 
The  mellow  twitter  of  the  woodcock  had  died 
away  in  the  swamp,  while  the  sharper  whistle  of 


154  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

his  full-feathered  wing  was  not  yet  heard  in  the 
yellowing  grove.  Bob  White  was  still  too  small, 
as  well  as  too  hard  to  see,  and  the  hare  had  not 
yet  left  the  thickets  and  made  his  form  in  the 
toadflax  or  the  reddening  dewberry-bushes  of  the 
open.  Nor  was  the  whizzing  wing  of  the  wild 
duck  yet  seen  along  the  shore,  nor  the  scaipe 
of  the  snipe  yet  heard  in  the  meadow,  nor  the 
ruffed  grouse  yet  ready  in  the  tangled  brake. 
This  plover  was  known  inland  for  only  about 
three  or  four  weeks  of  the  year.  The  fringed 
gentian  had  not  yet  closed  its  blue,  sorrel  con- 
tinued to  tinge  the  slopes,  and  the  vervain  was 
fading  but  little,  when  he  came  to  visit  the 
freshly-plowed  fields  of  autumn.  He  seemed  to 
come  from  the  coast,  for  it  was  only  during  heavy 
easterly  storms  that  he  came  in  any  numbers. 
Up  in  the  garret  of  the  old  farm-house,  among 
the  spinning-wheels  and  the  wasps,  we  used  to 
flatten  our  noses  against  the  dusty  window-panes 
where  the  rain  was  driving  hard,  and  watch  the 
coming  of  the  birds. 

High  in  air  they  came  at  first,  sometimes  in 
crescent  lines  with  the  horns  turned  forward, 
sometimes  in  crescents  with  the  horns  turned 


DAYS  AMONG    THE  PLOVER.  155 

backward.  Over  the  rim  of  the  woods  where 
the  chestnut  and  beech  were  yellowing,  and  the 
gum-tree  was  firing  the  lingering  green,  the  birds 
rose  and  dipped,  scattered  and  massed,  and  rode 
down  the  storm  to  the  plowed  fields  which  were 
their  favorite  feeding-ground  at  this  time. 

This  plover  came  with  soft  trilling  whistle  rip- 
pling from  his  throat,  whether  swinging  high 
over  the  hilltop  where  crimson  tints  were  creep- 
ing over  the  maple,  or  fanning  the  air  with  wings 
tremulous  with  speed  above  the  fragrant  buck- 
wheat fields,  or  skimming  low  along  the  corn 
where  the  pumpkin  was  yellowing  among  the 
rows. 

We  made  our  blinds  in  some  dark  cedar-bush, 
or  where  the  woolly  tails  of  the  clematis  were 
whitening  over  some  reddening  clump  of  briers, 
or  the  crimson  of  the  sumac  was  nodding  over  the 
bright  purple  of  the  aster.  Nothing  very  scien- 
tific was  needed,  and  a  bunch  of  corn-stalks  or 
tumble-weeds  often  served  us  well.  Good  imita- 
tions of  the  plover  for  decoys  could  then  be 
bought  in  New  York,  and  we  often  helped  out 
the  stock  with  dead  birds  propped  with  sticks. 
Then  came  the  whistle — a  common  one  with  a 


I$  GAME-BIRDS  A  7'  HOME. 

dried  pea  rattling  below  the  air-vent,  but  making 
a  very  good  imitation  of  the  plover's  call. 

Sometimes  a  flock  three  or  four  hundred  yards 
away  would  swerve  and  come  for  the  decoys 
almost  at  the  first  sound  of  the  whistle,  answering 
it  with  their  tender  notes,  often  so  many  at  once 
they  seemed  the  tremolo  of  some  distant  organ. 
When  the  birds  massed  in  air  and  set  their  wings 
to  slide  down  to  the  decoys,  then  was  the  critical 
time  with  a  young  shot.  Sometimes  I  could  not 
wait,  but  fired  prematurely  only  to  see  the  flock 
sheer  and  rise.  Sometimes  in  my  excitement 
I  could  not  get  what  seemed  good  enough  aim 
until  they  were  too  far  past.  And  sometimes 
my  finger  would  balk  on  the  trigger  and  refuse  to 
pull  when  I  had  good  aim.  My  nerves  were  not 
helped  by  the  fact  that  half  a  dozen  farmer's 
brats  were  lying  around  the  same  field  with  as 
many  relics  of  the  Revolution,  and  liable  to  spoil 
a  good  shot  for  me  at  any  moment  by  shooting 
clear  across  the  field.  The  village  parson,  too, 
was  out  with  his  old  musket  that  had  not  been 
fired  since  he  shot  his  annual  rabbit  in  the  rail- 
heap  back  of  the  house  the  winter  before,  and, 
as  every  gun  was  then  supposed  to  ''kill  at  a 


DAYS  AMONG    THE  PLOVER.  1 57 

hundred  yards,"  he  was  liable  to  shoot  at  my 
flock  if  I  did  not  hurry. 

How  pretty  this  plover  looks  in  its  soft  com- 
binations of  brown,  black,  gray,  and  white, 
black  feet  and  bill,  and  white  stripe  over  the  eye! 
And  pretty  when  it  wheels  and  the  light  flashes 
on  its  glossy  back  dotted  with  gold,  and  its 
brownish  tail  barred  with  gray.  What  wonder 
we  sometimes  hastened  out  before  the  storm  had 
cleared,  and  shivered  in  the  wet  grass  to  see  this 
little  visitor  spin  around  the  fields!  But  when 
the  purple  of  the  lingering  meadow-beauty  and 
the  soft  blue  of  the  lobelia  brighten  beneath  sun- 
light from  a  clear  sky,  you  need  no  longer  watch 
for  specks  on  the  horizon  or  over  the  woods 
where  the  butternut  is  turning  a  golden  hue 
beside  the  reddening  persimmon.  For  low  down 
they  now  come  over  the  hedgerows,  as  if  they 
would  alight  upon  the  crimson  masses  of  the 
woodbine  that  entwine  the  old  cedar  posts. 
And  over  the  fence  on  the  other  side  of  the  field 
comes  another  line  of  little  dark  bodies  with  hazy 
wings  quivering  on  each  side.  Now  there  is  the 
crack  of  a  gun  from  among  the  red  berries  of  a 
clump  of  wild  rose,  three  birds  come  whirling  over 


158  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

toearth,  and  the  rest  radiate  for  a  moment  like  a 
fan,  then,  grouping  in  a  black  mass,  spin  away 
toward  the  next  field.  But  not  long  need  envy 
gnaw  your  soul  over  the  success  of  that  rustic 
lout,  for  over  the  corn  not  far  away  another  line 
of  dark  dots  is  bearing  down  upon  you  with  soft 
trill  answering  your  whistle.  Well  away  from 
the  other  guns  it  swings,  and,  stringing  out  in 
crescent  line  with  one  end  toward  you,  sails 
swiftly  down  toward  your  decoys.  A  whirl,  a 
flutter,  and  a  medley  of  white  and  black  and 
brown  and  golden  dots  follows  the  report  of  the 
first  barrel,  and  as  the  birds  rise  and  sheer  off 
they  close  for  an  instant  into  a  dense  cloud,  from 
which,  at  the  sound  of  the  second  barrel,  it 
almost  rains  plover. 


XI. 

THE  QUAILS   OF   CALIFORNIA. 

QUITE  as  interesting  as  any  of  the  peculiari- 
ties of  the  valley  quail  of  California  is  the  way 
he  can  bother  not  only  the  novice,  but  the  ex- 
perienced shot  from  the  East  who  first  attempts 
to  interview  him. 

In  December,  1882,  a  gentleman  named  Jones 
called  on  me ;  a  strong  man  he  was,  and  a  good 
shot.  He  wanted  to  know  where  all  those  quails 
were  that  I  had  been  writing  about.  I  was 
always  ready  for  a  hunt  in  those  days,  and  soon 
took  him  to  where  we  saw  dark  blue  dots  scud- 
ding about  the  green  the  recent  rains  had  spread 
over  the  bottom  of  a  little  valley,  and  darting 
here  and  there  among  the  bushes  at  the  foot  of 
the  slopes. 

Mr.  Jones,  who  had  been  loud  in  his  praises 
of  what  I  had  written,  showed  at  once  that  he 

159 


l6o  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

had  never  read  a  line  of  it — a  painful  experience 
that  many  an  author  has  to  go  through.  Instead 
of  advancing  on  the  flock  as  fast  as  possible  with 
his  dog  at  heel  so  as  to  keep  him  fresh,  he  began 
to  sneak  slowly  for  a  sure  shot  when  the  quail 
rose.  And  he  sent  the  dog  ahead  when  he 
already  knew  where  the  game  was,  whereas,  on 
account  of  the  scarcity  of  water  and  the  hot,  dry 
air  of  early  winter  days  in  the  south  which  soon 
spoil  the  scent  of  the  best  ones,  a  dog  should 
never  be  used  either  to  point  or  retrieve  these 
birds  when  you  can  as  well  do  it  yourself. 

The  dog  drew  to  a  pretty  point  on  the  birds 
over  a  hundred  yards  away.  But  it  was  exactly 
what  you  don't  want  for  these  quails.  A  dog  as 
steady  as  one  should  be  for  all  Eastern  game 
will  be  nowhere  in  a  stern-chase  after  these  little 
chaps,  and  a  stern-chase  is  the  only  kind  you 
get.  Though  the  dog  was  pointing  by  scent, 
most  of  the  flock  was  in  plain  view.  It  was 
composed  of  dozens  of  coveys,  and  scattered 
along  the  base  of  the  hill  for  seventy  yards  or 
more.  Between  the  low  bushes  dark  lines  of 
five  to  ten  birds,  one  behind  the  other,  were 
winding  up  the  hill.  Here  and  there  the  lines 


THE   QUAILS   OF  CALIFORNIA.  l6l 

would  stop,  form  little  bunches  for  a  few  seconds, 
and  then  move  on  again.  Everywhere  went 
single  birds,  bobbing  their  heads,  dodging  and 
zigzagging  about,  stopping  occasionally  to  take  a 
look  at  us,  then  running  on  again.  Here  and 
there  one  hopped  upon  a  stone  and  sent  forth  a 
ringing  Whit — whit — whit ;  while  others,  gather- 
ing in  little  squads,  kept  up  a  low,  muffled  Wook — 
ivook — wook — wook — wo  ok — ook-wookook — wook 
— ook.  But  all  the  time  the  general  movement  of 
the  flock  up  the  hill  was  just  a  trifle  faster  than 
that  of  Mr.  Jones  on  the  level  ground.  By  the 
time  he  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill  where  he 
first  saw  them,  the  birds  were  about  half-way  up, 
and  the  hill  was  some  four  hundred  feet  high. 
There  they  were,  scudding  about  or  trailing  in 
lines,  with  the  Whit — whit — whit — whit  and 
Wook — wook — wook — wook  sounding  plainly  as 
before. 

Jones  started  up  the  hill,  with  his  dog  point- 
ing all  the  way  and  moving  up  as  his  master 
went  ahead  of  him  ;  but,  as  before,  Jones  seemed 
to  think  he  would  get  nearer  by  going  slowly  so 
as  not  to  frighten  the  game.  He  reached  the 
place  where  the  birds  had  been,  about  the  time 


1 62  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

they  reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  a  safe  distance 
above  him.  Not  at  all  discouraged,  he  went  on 
again,  thinking  if  they  passed  over  the  top  of 
the  ridge  he  would  have  a  good  chance  to  get 
close  without  their  seeing  him.  So  with  head 
down  and  gun  ready,  he  sneaked  up  to  the  crest 
of  the  ridge  and  looked  over.  From  nearly  half- 
way down  the  other  slope  came  the  Whit — whit 
— whit  and  Wook — wook — wook  again,  appar- 
ently about  ten  yards  farther  off  than  they  had 
yet  been. 

Jones  suddenly  saw  several  dark  little  bodies 
huddled  in  an  open  space  some  forty  yards  or 
more — it  is  generally  more — down  the  hill.  A 
good  shot,  he  had  started  out  with  the  intention 
of  shooting  only  at  birds  on  the  wing.  But  the 
most  violent  scruples  against  "a  pot-shot"  on 
this  bird  are  often  removed  by  less  than  four 
hundred  feet  of  climbing  and  ninety  degrees  of 
the  thermometer.  Therefore  I  was  not  sur- 
prised to  see  Jones  (who  had  been  very  free  in 
his  denunciation  of  pot-shooters)  fire  into  this 
bunch  of  birds.  The  result  was  the  roar  of 
hundreds  of  wings  and  hundreds  of  lines  of  whiz- 
zing and  buzzing  blue  above  the  brush  on  the 


THE   QUAILS   OF  CALIFORNIA.  163 

hillside  below.  Into  the  thickest  part  of  the 
flock  rang  the  second  barrel  of  Jones's  gun,  with 
the  general  result  of  firing  into  a  flock  at  large 
instead  of  selecting  a  single  bird.  No  bird  can 
so  tempt  one  to  break  this  good  rule  as  this 
quail  can,  and  no  other  is  so  sure  to  leave  one 
without  a  feather  for  reward. 

Jones  looked  for  a  moment  at  the  space  the 
birds  had  occupied  when  he  fired  at  them,  then  at 
me,  and  then  at  the  dog,  maintaining  the  while 
that  discreet  silence  which  often  covers  the  deep- 
est surprise ;  then  with  a  smile  born  of  confi- 
dence he  went  down  the  hill  to  where  the  birds 
were  when  he  fired  at  them  on  the  ground.  The 
dog  cantered  around,  jumped  over  the  bushes, 
snuffed  here  and  there  in  great  style  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  retired  to  the  shade  of  a 
sumac. 

Meanwhile  the  flock  had  sailed  across  a  little 
ravine  and  alighted  about  half-way  up  the  side 
of  the  hill  on  the  other  side.  The  quails  scat- 
tered over  about  an  acre  of  ground,  but  in  dark 
lines  and  little  squads  they  could  be  seen  run- 
ning together  again  with  Whit — wJiit — whit, 
Wook — wook — wook  sounding  from  a  hundred 


164  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

throats  and  mingled  with  their  assembling-call 
like  Ka — lot — o,  then  like  O/iio,  then  like 
K — woik  —  u/i,  kuh — woik — u/i,  and  various 
other  combinations.  But  all  this  time  they  were 
increasing  the  amount  of  up-hill  between  them 
and  Jones. 

Jones  reached  the  place  where  they  had  set- 
tled on  the  ground.  The  dog  was  not  half  so 
gay  as  at  the  last  place  where  they  had  alighted ; 
and  although  he  drew  in  good  style  and  came  to 
a  half  point,  he  had  one  eye  on  a  green  heterom- 
eles.  When  told  to  hie  on,  he  hied  to  the 
shade  of  that  bush,  from  which,  with  tongue 
hanging  out,  he  surveyed  his  master  with  some- 
thing akin  to  indifference.  Just  then  from  a 
bunch  of  chemisal  to  the  left  of  Jones  a  whizzing 
line  of  slate-blue,  white,  and  cinnamon  rose  with 
sharp  Chirp — chirp — chirp — chirp  that  had  a 
metallic  ring  of  defiance  never  heard  from  any 
other  bird.  Jones  whirled  his  gun  from  his 
shoulder  and  made  an  elegant  shot  at  the  space 
the  bird  vacated  as  he  pulled  the  trigger.  Quick 
as  a  flash  he  fired  the  other  barrel  at  about  the 
right  distance  ahead  of  the  bird  which  was  by  no 
means  out  of  reach.  The  bird  went  on  without 


THE   QUAILS   OF  CALIFORNIA.  165 

the  parting  of  a  feather.  There  was  a  heavy 
roar  of  wings  again  up  the  hill,  and  three  more 
birds  rose  around  Jones,  at  which  he  pointed  the 
empty  gun  with  great  coolness  and  remarked ! 

"Confound  your  impudence:  I'll  get  on  to 
you  next  time." 

By  the  time  Jones  reached  the  top  of  the  hill 
the  birds  were  sounding  their  alarm-call  sixty  or 
eighty  yards  down  the  slope  on  the  other  side. 
I  now  told  him  he  was  not  going  fast  enough 
instead  of  too  fast,  and  that  the  birds  would  run 
away  from  him  all  day  at  that  pace.  The  dog 
seemed  to  care  little  what  was  the  matter,  and 
took  more  interest  in  the  shade  of  a  handsome 
live-oak  that  was  nodding  over  the  ridge  than 
in  the  birds  or  the  movements  of  his  master. 
Jones,  too,  looked  as  if  he  did  not  relish  the  idea 
of  going  any  faster,  for  he  was  loaded  down  with 
all  sorts  of  clumsy  nonsense  when  one  should 
wear  the  lightest  dress  for  a  race  with  these  brill- 
iant runners.  Still  he  thought  the  advice  good, 
and  started  on  a  run  down  the  hill.  Before  he 
knew  it  the  whole  flock  rose  within  twenty-five 
yards  in  a  big  roaring  sheet  of  dark  blue.  He 


1 66  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

caught  himself  in  time  to  send  a  bird  whirling 
downward  with  each  barrel. 

He  then  waited  in  good  style  for  the  dog  to 
come  and  find  the  fallen  birds.  But  the  dog 
merely  snuffed  at  a  feather  with  a  temporary  fit 
of  energy,  looked  around  a  bit,  and  began  to 
think  about  shade  again.  He  was  worthless  for 
want  of  water  and  being  allowed  to  run  too  much 
in  hot,  dry  air  before  he  was  actually  needed. 

The  first  bird  Jones  soon  gave  up,  as  in  his 
haste  he  had  forgotten  to  mark  it.  The  second 
one  he  had  marked ;  but  when  he  went  where  he 
was  sure  it  fell,  all  bushes  looked  alike  and  there 
was  not  a  feather  to  reward  his  patience.  By 
the  time  he  had  concluded  he  could  not  find 
them  and  had  exhausted  his  vocabulary  on  the 
dog,  the  rest  of  the  flock  was  almost  at  the  crest 
of  the  next  slope.  Some  birds  are  almost  always 
left  hiding  at  every  place  where  a  flock  has  risen, 
and  two  burst  here  from  the  cover  near  his  feet 
with  a  saucy  Chirp — chirp — chirp.  There  was  a 
quick  slam-bang  of  both  barrels  of  his  gun,  and 
both  birds  went  whizzing  unharmed  across  the 
ravine  that  lay  between  Jones  and  the  next 
slope. 


THE   QUAILS   OF  CALIFORNIA.  1 67 

Jones  made  some  remarks  about  California  and 
its  quails,  and  started  over  the  ravine  after  the 
main  flock.  Fifty  yards  up  the  hill  a  quail  rose 
from  the  spot  where  the  flock  had  alighted  the 
last  time,  and,  curling  around  Jones's  head,  came 
backward  toward  me.  At  the  report  of  his  gun 
there  was  a  puff  of  feathers  from  the  bird  and  it 
went  whirling  down.  When  Jones  reached  the 
spot  where  it  fell  he  found  feathers,  but  neither 
he  nor  the  dog  could  find  any  bird.  There  was 
a  trail  of  feathers  down  a  steep  slope,  and  this 
Jones  and  the  dog  followed,  the  eyes  of  the 
master  being  about  as  good  as  the  nose  of  the 
dog.  Some  distance  below  Jones  heard  some- 
thing flutter.  He  went  hastily  to  the  place,  and 
found  some  feathers.  It  was  on  the  edge  of  a 
sharp  gully,  and  he  concluded  the  bird  was  at  the 
bottom.  He  sent  the  dog  down,  but  no  bird 
returned  with  him.  He  then  went  down  him- 
self, and  in  a  few  minutes,  by  the  aid  of  some 
bushes,  he  came  scrambling  out  of  the  gully,  hot 
and  tired,  and  no  bird  returning  with  him. 
Meanwhile  he  was  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  again, 
and  the  flock  was  probably  over  the  top  and 
moving  faster  than  ever. 


l68  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

"  You  don't  understand  them.  You  could 
have  got  fifty  single  shots  in  going  this  far. 
But  I  will  show  you  something  better,"  I  said. 

Quarter  of  a  mile  away  and  some  three  hun- 
dred feet  below  us  lay  a  long,  narrow  little 
valley,  partly  filled  with  clumps  of  prickly-pear 
from  five  to  fifteen  feet  across  and  from  three  to 
eight  feet  high,  lying  between  low  hills  quite 
bare  of  cover  for  some  distance.  We  could  see 
dark  dots  moving  swiftly  over  the  patches  of 
green  grass  in  the  openings,  and  the  soft  call 
the  quail  gives  when  not  alarmed  came  to  us  on 
the  breeze. 

Jones  was  horrified  at  my  suggesting  a  hunt  in 
that  stuff,  as  most  novices  give  up  the  quails  at 
once  when  they  fly  to  such  cover.  But  it  is 
often  the  best  of  ground,  as  the  birds  will  not 
leave  it  when  surrounded  by  bare  hills,  but  will 
fly  to  and  fro  in  it  all  day.  That  is,  they  once 
did  so.  There  was  always  plenty  of  bare  ground 
between  the  clumps  of  the  cactus  for  good  walk- 
ing, and  to  land  the  birds  on  it  doubled  the  skill 
required  to  make  a  good  bag. 

Even  before  we  had  entered  the  ground  we 
heard  the  sharp  Whit — whit — whit — whit  of 


THE  QUAILS  OF  CALIFORNIA.  169 

alarm,  and  down  the  winding  openings  saw  a 
dozen  or  more  dark  lines  winding  amid  the 
thorny  green.  I  quickened  the  pace,  and  sud- 
denly a  quail  rose  with  short  and  intermitting 
stroke  of  wing,  as  if  only  climbing  higher  for 
better  inspection.  Never  a  prettier  shot ;  but 
Jones,  excited  by  running,  fired  as  he  stopped. 
The  bird  went  whizzing  on,  followed  by  a  sheet 
of  roaring  blue,  into  the  thickest  of  which  Jones 
poured  his  second  barrel.  The  air  was  filled 
with  feathers,  and  half  a  dozen  quail  were  flutter- 
ing about  among  the  roots  in  the  center  of  one 
of  the  thickest  clumps  of  cactus,  where  he  would 
never  get  one  of  them. 

As  fast  as  I  could  run  I  followed  after  the 
flock,  which  had  flown  only  about  one  hundred 
yards.  As  they  rose  I  fired  into  the  air  above 
them,  wanting  only  to  scare  them  and  not  lose 
time  at  this  stage  by  picking  up.  At  this  the 
flock  broke  some  and  scattered,  but  still  I  kept 
after  them,  and  as  most  of  them  rose  again  I 
fired  the  other  barrel  in  air.  This  scattered 
them  over  a  space  some  two  hundred  yards  long 
in  the  cactus,  and  all  their  noise  ceased. 

Jones  came    up    looking  intensely    disgusted. 


I7O  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

Of  all  the  quail  he  had  seen  he  had  not  yet  one 
in  hand,  and  he  thought  the  prospects  slimmer 
than  ever.  His  dog  seemed  of  the  same  opinion, 
and  looked  at  the  fearful  array  of  needles  on  the 
prickly-pear  with  as  much  contempt  for  my 
judgment  in  selecting  hunting-ground  as  did  his 
master.  But  as  we  moved  along  the  winding 
avenues  amid  the  grim  shrubbery,  birds  by  the 
dozen  came  whizzing  and  chirping  from  out  its 
shaggy  arms.  Some  scrambled  up  with  wonder- 
ful speed  of  foot  along  the  thorny  limbs  before 
taking  wing,  while  others  came  darting  out 
under  full  headway.  Some  curled  over  our 
heads,  others  shot  out  on  the  opposite  side, 
rising  into  sight  for  a  twinkling  in  a  dark  blue 
curve,  while  others  on  foot  darted  along  the 
ground  to  the  next  clump  of  cactus. 

There  was  no  waiting  for  a  shot.  At  almost 
every  step  there  was  a  whiz  on  one  side,  a  buzz 
on  the  other,  and  a  Chirp — chirp — chirp  ahead 
or  behind,  and  the  report  of  a  gun  was  followed 
by  a  dozen  blue  lines  curving  and  twisting  per- 
haps out  of  the  same  cactus  from  which  half  a 
dozen  had  risen  but  a  moment  before.  Jones 
did  not  know  whether  he  was  on  foot  or  in  a 


THE   QUAILS  OF  CALIFORNIA.  I?I 

balloon.  His  gun  rattled  as  fast  as  he  could 
load  it,  and  occasionally  a  stricken  bird  went 
whirling  into  the  cactus,  or,  if  it  landed  on  the 
open  ground,  it  fell  generally  but  half  killed, 
and  in  a  twinkling  was  in  the  nearest  bunch  of 
cactus,  safe  from  dog  or  master. 

In  fifteen  minutes  the  climax  of  this  was 
reached  and  the  roar  and  confusion  were  sud- 
denly gone.  So  were  the  birds,  especially  those 
that  Jones  thought  should  have  been  in  his 
pocket.  He  had  but  three  when  he  should  have 
bagged  at  least  fifteen  in  single  shots.  But 
the  shooting  was  by  no  means  over.  It  had 
only  settled  down.  For  two  hours  or  more  we 
traversed  the  open  places  of  that  strange  covert, 
and  from  the  thickest  and  most  threatening 
parts  came  bird  after  bird  as  we  passed  and  re- 
passed  them  again,  again  and  again.  Never 
does  the  valley  quail  show  to  better  advantage 
than  when  he  bursts  from  the  outer  edge  of  this 
stuff  and  goes  around  you  to  enter  it  again. 
Through  the  bluish  haze  of  his  rapid  wings  you 
see  the  mottled  breast  of  white  and  dark  with 
cinnamon  shadings,  the  little  bluish  neck  and 
black-and-white  head  outstretched  full  length, 


1/2  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

and  the  long,  dark  plume  bent  backward  by 
speed.  He  looks  too  pretty  to  shoot  as  he 
cleaves  the  warm  sunlight,  or,  setting  his  little 
wings,  glides  into  the  thickest  mass  of  the  thorny 
cactus. 

In  a  few  days  Jones  learned  the  dark  and  de- 
vious ways  of  the  valley  quail  and  became  quite 
an  expert  on  them,  though  he  never  found  them 
as  easy  shooting  as  if  they  would  lie  to  a  dog  like 
Bob  White.  After  an  absence  of  ten  years  he 
returned  again  to  California.  After  quite  a  hunt, 
in  which  he  missed  the  welcome  call  of  the 
quail  he  had  before  heard  in  almost  every  little 
valley  and  on  every  hillside,  he  heard  a  muffled 
roar  of  wings.  After  losing  a  minute  in  locating 
the  sound,  he  saw  well  up  the  hillside  only  some 
thirty  birds,  spread  out  in  line  like  a  fan  aimed 
for  nearly  half  the  horizon  and  just  clearing  the 
top  of  the  ridge.  Shooting  to  scatter  them 
would  be  ridiculous,  for  they  were  already  as  well 
scattered  as  they  could  be.  That  flock  was  not 
going  to  bother  him  by  running  together  again 
before  he  could  reach  it.  So  he  scrambled 
up  hill  with  legs  nimble  with  expectation  and 
over  the  ridge,  expecting  to  find  the  birds  hiding 


THE   QUAILS   OF  CALIFORNIA.  173 

in  the  brush  just  over  its  top.  He  went  down 
the  other  side  and  along  it  for  some  space,  but 
nothing  rose,  and  there  was  nothing  calling  any- 
where along  that  hillside  or  in  the  gulch  at  its 
foot  or  on  the  other  side.  Before  he  reached 
the  bottom  of  the  slope  there  was  a  buzzing 
sound  a  hundred  yards  away  on  the  other  side, 
and  a  dark  blue  line  went  around  a  little  point 
of  brush.  Jones  scrambled  across ;  and  just  as  he 
was  nearing  the  edge  of  the  gully  between  the 
slopes  he  heard  the  buzz  of  more  wings.  An 
extra  jump  landed  him  on  the  level  ground,  but 
the  three  quails  that  had  made  the  noise  were 
out  of  reach  by  the  time  he  brought  the  gun  to 
his  shoulder. 

He  pressed  on  faster,  and  after  going  about  a 
hundred  yards  a  quail  sprung  at  about  thirty 
yards.  Had  it  risen  from  the  point  of  a  dog  he 
could  have  caught  it  with  the  first  barrel,  for  his 
gun  was  a  good  one  and  well  loaded.  But 
taking  him  unawares,  this  bird  was  too  swift, 
and  by  the  time  the  shot  arrived  it  had  scattered 
enough  to  let  the  bird  through  with  the  loss  of 
only  a  tail-feather.  Remembering  the  birds 
had  crossed  the  preceding  ridge  in  a  line  well 


174  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

strung  out,  Jones  beat  to  the  right  of  where  the 
last  bird  had  risen.  He  found  nothing,  and  had 
just  turned  around  to  beat  the  other  side,  when 
there  was  a  buzz  of  wings  behind  him,  and  he 
wheeled  in  time  to  see  a  blue  curve  cross  the 
ridge  behind  a  bush.  A  snap-shot  at  the  bush 
as  the  bird  disappeared  behind  it  brought  a 
feather  or  two  sailing  back  on  the  air,  but  the 
most  careful  search,  aided  by  the  nose  of  a  good 
dog,  failed  to  find  any  bird. 

So  far  the  dog  had  been  unable  to  get  close 
enough  to  point  a  bird,  and  Jones  now  thought 
that  after  so  much  shooting  the  quails  would  lie 
more  closely,  as  they  did  in  days  of  yore.  So  he 
went  to  where  the  right  wing  of  the  main  flock 
should  have  alighted  after  first  rising.  All  this 
side  of  the  hill  he  beat  quite  thoroughly,  without 
the  dog  making  any  signs  of  smelling  anything. 
He  was  about  to  quit  when  he  heard  a  distant 
buzz,  and  up  the  hill,  from  a  lot  of  rocks  and 
brush  in  the  head  of  a  steep  gulch,  saw  three  or 
four  quail  wind  over  the  top  of  the  ridge.  He 
thought  there  must  be  more  in  that  place,  and 
went  hastily  there.  The  dog  snuffed  around  in 
good  style  and  drew  finely,  but  that  was  all. 


THE   QUAILS   OF  CALIFORNIA.  1/5 

Jones  then  concluded  to  go  over  the  ridge, 
thinking  the  last  birds  would  not  fly  far.  He 
and  the  dog  bushwacked  the  whole  of  the  next 
slope  without  hearing  the  buzz  of  a  wing.  He 
then  thought  he  would  leave  this  flock  and  try 
to  find  a  larger  one  on  better  ground.  Just  as 
he  turned  around  to  go  there  was  a  distant  buzz, 
and  away  to  the  right  two  or  three  birds  were 
sailing  up  a  hill.  Whereupon  Jones  concluded 
that  the  business  would  have  to  be  learned  anew. 
In  which  he  was  most  eminently  correct,  for 
the  valley  quail  of  California  has  kept  better 
pace  with  improvements  in  guns  and  learned 
more  from  his  persecutors  than  any  other  thing 
that  lives. 

Jones  decided  to  try  the  large  two-plumed 
quail  of  the  mountains.  But  he  soon  found  the 
cheap  breechloader  and  the  game-butcher  had 
penetrated  the  deepest  shades  even  there,  and  that 
this  quail  had  learned  something.  He  heard  no 
more  the  tender  Ch — ch — cJi — ch — ch — clieeeeali — 
cheeeah  or  the  silvery  Cloi — cloi — cloi  that  used 
to  ring  along  the  morning  hills.  He  found,  as 
with  the  valley  quail,  that  a  dog  was  more  use- 
ful than  before  to  find  the  flock  at  first,  but  of 


I ?  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

little  use  after  the  birds  were  scattered.  When 
his  dog  first  came  to  a  point  in  some  dense 
brush  through  which  a  whiz  of  blue  went  so 
swiftly  that  he  had  no  time  to  look  along  the 
barrel  of  his  gun,  but,  after  a  quick  shot, 
dimly  saw  the  blue  whirl  over,  he  felt  proud. 
Yet  he  was  sadly  astray  when  he  thought 
he  was  to  get  many  more  shots,  even  as  hard 
as  that.  Vainly  the  dog  drew  among  the 
heavy  manzanita  on  the  hill  or  in  the  deep 
masses  of  ferns  and  horse-tails  in  the  gulch.  The 
more  Jones  expected  a  rise  out  of  the  next 
bush  the  more  he  did  not  see  it.  Far  ahead 
he  could  occasionally  see  a  dark  speck  scud 
across  some  opening  ahead  of  the  slowly-crawl- 
ing dog,  but  not  a  wing  beat  the  air  near  enough 
to  shoot  at. 

Jones  then  quickened  his  pace,  but  found  it 
took  much  faster  traveling  than  before  to  keep 
up  with  the  birds.  By  the  time  he  had  scram- 
bled up  hill  among  the  brush  fast  enough  to 
force  a  quail  into  flight,  he  was  so  out  of  breath 
and  in  such  an  awkward  position  that  he  could 
not  hit  anything  even  if  close  enough  for  cer- 
tainty. And  when  he  did  hit  a  quail,  it  was 


THE   QUAILS   OF  CALIFORNIA.  1/7 

generally  at  such  a  distance  that  it  was  not 
killed  instantly,  and  fluttered  so  far  down  the 
steep  hillside  before  stopping  that,  by  the  time 
he  and  the  dog  had  found  it,  it  took  as  much 
work  to  find  the  rest  of  the  flock  as  at  first. 


XII. 

WILSON'S  SNIPE. 

FEW  birds  kindle  so  quick  a  fire  in  the  sports- 
man's bosom  as  this  little  rover,  whether  rising 
from  the  meadow  at  the  breaking  of  spring  or 
heard  high  in  the  evening  sky  when  in  autumn 
he  arrives  from  the  North.  Whether  you  call 
him  jack-snipe  or  English  snipe  or  by  his  real 
name,  Wilson's  snipe,  he  has  ever  a  strange 
attraction.  Much  of  this  is  in  the  defiant 
manner  and  seeming  consciousness  of  superiority, 
qualities  which  lend  so  much  charm  to  the  valley 
quail  of  California.  This  snipe  is  just  keen 
enough  to  require  the  constant  polishing  of  one's 
wits  and  eyes,  yet  not  so  wild  as  to  make  his 
capture  too  difficult.  When  woodcock,  quail,  or 
grouse  hide,  it  is  with  the  hope  that  you  will  not 
discover  them :  and  without  a  good  dog,  well 
trained,  you  rarely  will.  But  this  snipe  deliber- 
ately awaits  your  coming.  When  he  squats,  he 

178 


WILSON'S  SNIPE.  179 

seems  to  know  you  are  coming  close  enough  to 
compel  him  to  rise,  and  seems  to  take  pleasure  in 
giving  you  an  opportunity  to  shoot  at  him. 
Then  he  lies  just  close  enough  to  tempt  you, 
expecting  to  escape  by  superior  quickness  and 
twisting  flight. 

As  the  first  game  of  spring  in  many  places,  this 
bird  fills  an  aching  void  in  many  a  breast.  Do 
you  remember  the  day  the  frost  first  relaxed  its 
grip  upon  the  meadow  ?  Loud  howled  the  wind 
of  March,  and  scowled  the  leaden  sky,  yet  you 
plunged  through  mud  and  jumped  the  foaming 
ditch  as  lightly  as  on  a  June  morning.  Not  yet 
had  the  frog  broken  the  silence  left  in  winter's 
wake ;  no  liquid  note  around  the  old  box  in  the 
garden  where  the  blue-bird  makes  his  yearly 
home ;  no  sound  from  the  purple  grackles  in  the 
bunch  of  pines  upon  the  hill ;  no  dots  upon  the 
sky  where  the  wild  duck  should  be  hastening 
home  from  the  South.  Yet  here  you  tramp 
through  a  remnant  of  snow,  and  there  you  twist 
your  feet  loose  from  devouring  mud,  looking 
happy  and  expectant.  And  the  dog  dashes 
through  cold  water  and  flounders  through  half- 
frozen  slush,  while  the  chilly  wind  whistles  over 


ISO  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

his  wet  coat ;  yet  he  wags  his  tail,  and  looks  as  if 
he  would  not  go  back  to  the  fire  even  if  you 
should.  Many  the  acres  of  dreary  dead  grass 
and  chilly,  sour  slop  through  which  you  tear  and 
splash  your  way,  with  never  a  sight  or  sound  of 
life  but  the  dark  line  and  dismal  caw  of  the 
winter's  crow  across  the  sky.  Yet  on  you  go, 
though  your  fingers  are  numb ;  and  on  goes  the 
dog,  though  never  was  a  day  more  hard  upon  one. 
Suddenly  the  dog  goes  more  slowly  ;  you  hasten 
along  toward  him.  Yes,  he  is  actually  drawing 
to  a  point.  And  before  you  are  very  near  him, 
and  before  he  settles  to  rigid  certainty,  a  sharp 
Scaipe  breaks  upon  your  anxious  ear,  and  from 
the  dead  grass  some  twenty  yards  ahead  of  the 
dog  there  mounts  a  bit  of  gray,  seeming  almost 
too  small  to  shoot  at.  With  a  quick  twist, 
about  the  moment  you  pull  the  trigger,  the  gray 
tacks  away  on  a  new  line,  leaving  your  shot 
whizzing  along  on  the  old  one ;  and  as  you  whirl 
the  second  barrel  around  and  pull  the  trigger  be- 
fore he  has  time  to  twist  again,  he  is  just  far 
enough  to  ride  untouched  through  one  of  the 
openings  between  the  shot  that  the  best  gun  will 
leave  at  this  distance. 


WILSON'S  SNIPE.  l8l 

The  snipe  seems  to  know  just  how  to  do  it, 
and  actually  tempts  you  to  another  trial.  Is 
anything  more  ravishing  than  the  way  he  now 
plays  with  you?  Rejoicing  in  the  breeze  and 
cleaving  the  swiftest  gale  faster  than  any  other 
thing  that  lives,  the  gay  wanderer  spins  up  wind 
for  a  while,  and  then  darts  skyward  as  if  on  a 
visit  to  the  stars.  Changing  its  mind  as  quickly 
as  the  lightning,  it  darts  now  on  one  tack, 
then  on  another,  when,  wheeling  in  long  circling 
sweep,  back  it  comes  like  a  boomerang.  A  few 
more  zigzag  courses,  as  if  to  warn  you  against 
being  over-confident  of  its  return,  then  up  darts 
the  gray  again,  with  sudden  whirl  falls  into  a 
spiral  line  and,  with  sharp  bill  toward  earth,  down 
it  comes,  pitches  around  backward,  and  alights 
within  two  hundred  yards,  perhaps,  of  the  place 
where  you  last  shot  at  it.  Do  you  remember 
how  many  times  you  chased  that  bird  around 
eighty  acres  of  desolate  bog  before  you  finally 
got  within  reach  of  him?  And  do  you  remember 
how  large  you  felt  when  his  audacity  finally 
failed  and  he  gyrated  into  the  mud  ?  In  the 
gun-store  where  you  showed  that  night  the  first 
snipe  of  the  season  you  were  the  hero  of  the  hour, 


1 82  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

and  felt  more  proud  of  that  little  bird  than  many 
a  man  does  over  a  moose.  Why  it  is,  no  man 
can  tell.  And  how  much  would  he  gain  if  he 
could? 

There  are  those  who  say  this  snipe  is  compara- 
tively easy  to  hit  when  once  you  have  learned 
the  secret  of  its  flight.  But  who  learns  it  until 
with  the  old  dog  he  hunts  only  in  dreams  before 
the  fire?  Although  generally  found  on  open 
ground,  this  bird  does  not  confine  himself  to  it, 
and  in  any  sort  of  cover  he  can  make  it  highly 
interesting  for  the  quickest  and  surest  shots. 
Do  you  not  remember  how,  amid  the  wild  rice 
left  by  the  receding  water,  you  heard  the  defiant 
Scaipe  so  hard  to  locate  in  time,  and  caught 
sight  of  the  gray  just  as  it  vanished  on  a  new 
tack  through  the  tall  stalks?  That  was  not  so 
easy  to  hit,  was  it?  How  about  the  time  you 
poured  vain  thunder  through  the  cat-tails  around 
the  muddy  shore  from  which  the  snipe  had  just 
sprung,  and  above  the  edge  of  the  smoke  saw  the 
intended  victim  careering  aloft  in  a  direction 
entirely  different  from  the  one  on  which  it  started? 
Did  you  ever,  on  the  boggy  meadow  partly  cov- 
ered with  brush  higher  than  your  head,  see  this 


WILSON'S  SNIPE,  183 

bird  spring  from  behind  a  bush  just  thin  enough 
to  give  a  glimpse  of  gray,  and  then  twist  so 
quickly  that  your  finger  could  not  resist  in  time 
the  impulse  to  pull  off  the  gun  on  the  old  line? 
And  what  did  you  think  when  the  next  one  rose 
on  open  ground  and  in  a  twinkling  whipped  be- 
hind such  a  bush,  with  the  flame  streaming,  as 
you  thought,  across  its  path,  yet  over  the  top  of 
the  bush  it  rose  triumphant  against  the  blue  sky 
at  a  rate  of  speed  that  left  the  shot  from  your 
second  barrel  behind  it? 

The  best  shooting  I  have  ever  seen  on  this 
bird  was  in  1864  on  the  shores  of  Senachwine 
Lake  in  Illinois.  The  water  was  slowly  receding 
after  an  early  autumn  rise,  leaving  along  the 
water's  edge  a  strip  some  twenty  feet  wide,  in  the 
right  stage  of  moisture  to  make  plenty  of  worms 
for  this  ravenous  little  feeder,  while  the  grass  that 
followed  the  falling  water  made  him  the  best  of 
cover.  On  the  upper  edge  of  this  the  ground 
was  dry  enough  for  good  walking.  The  numbers 
of  snipe  concentrated  on  that  strip,  which  was 
several  miles  long,  seem  now  quite  incredible. 
But  there  was  then  only  one  person  in  Marshall 
County  who  ever  shot  at  them,  and  he  but  little. 


1 84  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

All  game  was  there  valued  by  the  thump  it  made 
on  striking  ground.  With  no  dog  and  no  more 
labor  than  in  an  after-dinner  stroll,  I  have  shot 
snipe  on  that  ground  about  as  fast  as  I  could 
load  the  gun  and  pick  up  the  birds.  Waiting  for 
a  shot  was  the  last  thing  that  troubled  me,  for 
there  seemed  at  times  a  bird  to  every  square  yard, 
and  there  were  few  days  for  six  weeks  when  a 
bird  would  not  spring  within  shot  at  almost  every 
step  I  took  ahead.  Most  of  them  curled  around 
sideways  over  the  water  when  I  was  walking 
down  wind,  though  the  ground  was  so  open  on 
the  land  side  that  there  was  little  trouble  in  re- 
trieving those  that  fell  there.  But  there  was  no 
need  of  walking  down  wind,  for  there  were  enough 
straight-away  shots  within  easy  range.  About 
the  only  question  involved  was,  like  that  of  duck- 
shooting,  to  land  the  birds  where  it  would  not 
take  too  long  to  retrieve  them,  and  let  all  shots 
go  that  would  not  accomplish  this. 

Like  the  woodcock  this  snipe  defies  the  pot- 
shooter,  while  almost  all  other  game-birds  at 
times  present  the  fairest  of  chances  for  the  rank- 
est of  murder.  But  on  this  ground  occurred  a 
piece  of  pot-shooting  on  these  snipe  so  remark- 


WILSON'S  SNIPE.  185 

able    that,    incredible    as    it  will    seem,    I    must 
tell  it. 

One  of  my  dearest  hunting-companions  there 
had  long  looked  with  pitying  eye  on  my  de- 
pravity in  shooting  so  small  a  bird  as  Wilson's 
snipe.  But  once  about  mid-day,  when  ducks  were 
slow  in  coming  and  he  was  tired  of  smoking,  he 
left  me  for  a  while.  I  soon  heard  him  shoot 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  and  within  the 
next  thirty  minutes  he  shot  about  a  dozen  times 
at  the  same  place.  In  considerably  less  than  an 
hour  from  the  time  he  left  he  tossed  me  a  bunch 
of  snipe,  remarking,  with  all  the  coolness  imagi- 
nable, "  I  thought  I  would  have  to  show  you  how 
to  do  it."  I  was  astounded  to  find  twenty-seven 
snipe  in  the  bunch,  and  all  still  warm.  There 
was  no  one  about  from  whom  he  could  have  got 
them.  There  were  indeed  times  when  one  could 
average  a  shot  a  minute  with  a  breech-loader  for 
several  minutes.  But  my  friend  was  using  a 
muzzle-loader.  Allowing  for  instantaneous  load- 
ing and  no  missing,  how  did  he  pick  them  up  in 
that  time?  He  sat  and  smoked  long  in  silence, 
eying  me  through  the  smoke  and  treating  the 
performance  as  a  matter  of  course  for  him.  I 


1 86  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

dared  not  play  the  greenhorn  by  asking.  Finally 
he  took  pity  on  me  and  said : 

"  Hanged  if  I  didn't  sit  down  behind  a  bush 
and  pot  'em  all  in  one  spot,  sometimes  three  or 
four  at  a  shot." 

I  went  to  see  the  place.  There  was  an  open- 
ing four  or  five  feet  wide,  formed  by  an  old  low- 
water  road  and  cattle-paths.  This  was  bare  of 
grass  or  cover,  and  ran  through  the  strip  of  grass 
along  the  lake  in  which  the  birds  were  so  plenty. 
Across  this  opening  snipe  were  trotting  in  twos, 
threes,  and  even  fours,  as  well  as  singly,  and  the 
feathers  on  the  ground  told  the  story.  I  believe 
one  could  have  shot  snipe  there  all  that  afternoon 
at  about  the  same  rate. 

Another  most  singular  kind  of  shooting  I  once 
had  on  this  bird  was  in  Mexico.  Few  parts  of 
the  United  States  ever  afford  the  right  conditions 
for  it.  Along  a  line  of  sloughs  with  very  flat 
margins  the  grass  was  nibbled  very  close  by  the 
hungry  cattle,  it  being  winter,  the  dry  time  of 
the  year.  Over  it  snipe  wild  as  hawks  were  trot- 
ting, but  all  out  of  range.  At  from  sixty  to  a 
hundred  yards  many  of  them  would  squat  and 
hide  in  what  little  cover  the  gray  grass-stumps 


WILSON'S  SNIPE.  IS/ 

afforded ;  but  when  I  got  within  twenty-five  or 
thirty  yards  they  whirled  away  on  high,  and  after 
triangulating  the  skies  for  a  while  concluded  that 
the  old  place  was  safe  enough,  and  came  pitching 
swiftly  down  to  alight  within  a  few  rods,  perhaps, 
of  the  place  where  started.  They  made  fine 
shooting  with  the  shot-gun,  but  I  had  with  me  a 
rifle  of  small  caliber,  shooting  a  sharp-pointed  ball 
that  tore  birds  no  more  than  shot,  and  I  soon 
found  there  was  even  more  fun  in  shooting  them 
with  that  than  with  shot. 

One  used  only  to  the  target  might  think  it  an 
easy  matter  to  hit  a  snipe  at  twenty-five  or  thirty 
paces.  But  your  target  is  always  at  the  same 
distance  and  in  the  same  position  of  light.  It  is 
also  clear  and  well  defined.  These  snipe  made, 
moreover,  the  very  finest  marks  at  which  I  ever 
shot ;  and  so  extreme  was  the  accuracy  required, 
I  had  to  clean  the  rifle  with  water  every  few 
shots.  The  head  of  a  squirrel  in  the  highest  tree, 
or  that  of  a  ruffed  grouse  motionless  in  the  dark 
shade  of  a  pine,  the  faintest  shade  of  gray  or 
brown  that  ever  marked  a  deer  in  dense  and  dis- 
tant covert,  were  no  finer  marks  than  these  little 
birds  at  twenty-five  yards.  Squatting  close  to  the 


l88  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

ground,  they  showed  but  half  an  inch,  at  best, 
of  faint  gray  or  brown  above  the  neutral  tints  of 
the  faded  grass-stumps.  Why  they  were  so  wild 
I  could  not  divine ;  but  it  was  only  by  moving 
very  slowly  and  using  the  keenest  of  eyesight, 
trained  from  boyhood  on  game,  that  the  little 
brown  or  gray  line  could  be  distinguished  from 
the  thousand  bits  of  dead  wood,  scraps  of  dried 
manure,  dead  leaves,  and  other  things  of  the  same 
color  and  size.  And  when  the  game  was  located 
to  a  certainty,  and  fancy  could  make  out  the  long 
bill  lying  ahead  of  the  faint  line  of  gray  or  brown, 
to  distinguish  the  color  through  the  sights  of  the 
rifle  and  hold  them  on  the  center  with  that  exact- 
ness that  the  rifle  demands  for  success  on  such 
fine  marks  called  for  the  fineness  of  sight  and 
steadiness  of  nerve  that  can  be  kept  in  order  only 
by  constant  practice.  Any  attempt  to  get  close 
enough  for  certainty  was  quite  sure  to  result  in  a 
Scaipe,  and  a  darting  line  of  gray  that  no  one 
is  fool  enough  to  shoot  at  with  a  rifle  if  he  knows 
anything  about  it.  Yet  that  very  thing  made 
the  shooting  most  delightful ;  and  though  I  could 
have  got  far  more  game  with  the  shot-gun,  I  used 
nothing  but  the  little  rifle  after  the  first  day. 


WILSON'S  SNIPE.  189 

For  abundance  of  birds  with  comparative  ease 
in  hunting,  the  boggy  meadows  of  California  are 
now  hard  to  excel.  The  best  shooting,  too,  is  in 
midwinter,  when  there  is  little  to  hunt  in  the 
Eastern  States.  Much  of  the  ground,  especially 
in  the  South,  is  hard  enough  to  drive  over  with 
a  wagon  and  walk  over  with  no  difficulty,  while 
it  is  still  wet  enough  to  furnish  abundant  food 
for  this  hungry  little  tramp.  Sometimes  on  the 
warm  still  days  of  midwinter  it  is  one  continual 
Scaipe,  scaipe,  scaipc,  on  such  ground,  and  a 
dozen  or  more  of  the  little  gray  cruisers  are  in 
the  air  at  once.  Here  one  spins  away  on  a  line 
so  straight  and  long  that  he  seems  bound  for 
yonder  mountain  whose  snowy  top  rises  in  hoary 
majesty  above  long  lines  of  fleecy  cloud  that 
along  its  breast  look  dark  by  the  contrast. 
Another,  after  starting  for  several  different  quar- 
ters of  the  universe  in  as  many  seconds,  concludes 
the  climate  right  here  is  good  enough,  and  whirls 
around  backward  and  pitches  into  the  edge  of 
the  tall  marsh-grass  beside  the  slope  where  the 
bluebells  are  blowing.  Another  starts  off  as 
though  he  would  cross  the  sea  that  lies  afar  in 
undimpled  blue  beneath  the  soft  bright  sky; 


GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

then  away  he  wheels  for  the  broad  reach  of  plain 
on  whose  carpet  of  green  rolling  in  so  many 
shades  the  little  plover  is  trotting  and  the  wild 
goose  is  bathing  in  the  sun  ;  then  off  he  goes  for 
the  hills,  where  the  dark  green  of  the  manzanita 
is  brightening  into  new  life  and  the  tall  shaft 
of  the  yucca  opening  at  the  top  into  its  great 
panicle  of  greenish  white.  But  no,  this  doesn't 
suit  him,  and  he  whirls  away  for  the  lagoon, 
where  the  burnished  green  of  the  mallard's  head 
is  shining,  where  the  white  of  the  canvas-back 
gleams  on  the  open  water,  and  the  little  cin- 
namon teal  is  drifting  along  the  edges.  Here  in 
the  dense  ranks  of  the  rushes  that  stand  yet 
green  in  winter's  noon,  where  the  voice  of  the 
king-rail  rings  along  the  shore  and  the  red  wings 
and  yellow  throats  of  hosts  of  blackbirds  flash 
amid  the  cat-tails,  he  will  surely  alight,  for  the 
shores  are  muddy  and  there  is  both  food  and 
safety.  But  no,  he  rejoices  in  the  storm,  and 
fain  would  ride  again  the  whirlwind  of  your  fire, 
and  back  he  comes  on  a  long  tack,  and  with  his 
peculiar  corkscrew  spiral  down  he  darts  out  of 
the  blue  and  settles  perhaps  right  in  your  course, 
scarcely  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  away.  Per- 


WILSON'S  SNIPE.  191 

haps  also  he  doesn't,  for  he  has  of  late  learned 
much  about  improvements  in  guns. 

Here,  too,  he  is  often  found  on  spots  of  wet 
ground  so  small  that  in  the  East  it  would  be 
quite  absurd  to  look  for  snipe  of  any  kind. 
Where  in  some  little  spring  run  the  watercress 
darkens  the  bubbling  water  with  its  rank  green, 
and  the  wild  celery,  sprawling  over  the  edges, 
makes  the  air  fragrant  with  its  rich  odor,  this 
little  roaming  beauty  may  rise  when  you  least 
expect  it.  Where  on  the  big  plain  the  rising  of 
some  subterranean  water  has  made  a  little  wet 
spot  of  a  few  yards  square,  the  only  moisture 
perhaps  in  miles,  there,  among  the  few  tules  that 
rear  their  arrowy  shafts  of  green,  he  may  be  often 
found ;  and  even  thousands  of  feet  above  the  sea 
where  a  green  meadow  is  sunk  into  the  moun- 
tain's back,  or  a  spring  bog  shines  near  its  crest, 
there,  too,  this  little  darling  is  often  found  at 
home. 


XIII. 

SALT-WATER   BIRDS.. 

To  many  the  shooting  along  the  shores  of 
inlets  from  the  ocean  is  even  more  attractive 
than  that  of  the  uplands,  and  I  must  confess 
that  the  smell  of  salt  water  stirs  in  me  some  very 
delightful  recollections.  Probably  the  largest 
assortment  and  quantity  of  "shore  birds,"  or 
"bay  birds"  as  they  are  commonly  called,  are 
now  on  the  Pacific  coast,  where  they  are  not  yet 
appreciated  as  they  will  be  later. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  Colorado  River  and  the 
adjacent  shores  of  the  Gulf  of  California  the 
waders  are  more  abundant  than  I  have  ever  seen 
them  elsewhere,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  any  part  of 
the  United  States  can  now  show  the  quantity 
and  variety  there  to  be  seen  almost  any  day  in 
the  winter.  The  shores  are  long  and  low,  pro- 
tected from  heavy  surf  by  miles  of  shallow  water, 

192 


SALT-WATER  BIRDS.  1 93 

so  that  almost  any  flat-bottomed  boat  can  with 
safety  coast  miles  of  this  open  sea.  Over  the 
water  rings  the  clear  call  of  the  curlew,  and  in 
its  shallow  edge  you  may  see  his  buff  coat  as 
he  wades  about  and  plies  his  sickle-shaped  bill. 
Beside  him,  with  bill  as  long,  but  curved  the 
other  way  as  if  meant  to  feed  on  manna  from 
Heaven,  the  avocet  in  snowy  coat  and  wings  of 
jet  stands  fat  and  happy.  On  almost  every 
square  rod  of  the  shore  the  mottled  colors  of 
the  willet  blend  into  gray,  and  beside  him  plays 
the  same  yellow-leg  that  on  the  bars  of  some  of 
the  Atlantic  streams  has  stirred  such  tumult  in 
so  many  boyish  souls.  In  sober  gray  the  san- 
derling  trots  along  the  mud-flats,  and  flashes  of 
white  and  black  come  from  where  sandpipers 
whisk  and  whirl  about  as  if  little  time  were 
allowed  them  to  get  anywhere.  Here  a  trim 
bill  and  gamy  tints  make  the  phalarope  seem 
of  finer  blood  than  the  rest,  and  there  the  dow- 
itcher  with  longer  bill,  more  slender  head,  and 
richer  colored  breast  airs  himself  as  if  the  finest 
gentleman  in  the  crowd.  Among  them  is  an 
occasional  gleam  from  the  bright  black  arid 
white  of  the  oyster-catcher,  whose  shorter  bill 


194  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

and  stouter  body  make  him  seem  a  bit  out  of 
place  among  the  trim  figures  of  his  companions. 
Even  the  turn-stone  seems  a  trifle  lonely  for  the 
same  reason,  though  his  pure  jet  and  snowy 
white  with  slight  tinges  of  reddish  brown  show 
the  shore  bird  beyond  mistake.  Among  these 
the  stilt's  lithe  figure  moves  with  dignity  on  its 
long  legs,  and  over  them  with  tender  whistle 
plover  whiz  until  in  places  every  foot  of  the 
shore  seems  alive  at  the  ebbing  of  the  tide. 
The  birds  are  harder  then  to  reach  than  at  flood- 
tide,  when  out  on  the  grassy  flats  and  hugging 
the  dry  shores;  but  to  see  life  as  now  rarely 
seen  elsewhere,  ebb-tide  on  these  flats  is  the 
time. 

Of  birds  that  love  the  sounding  shore  the 
black  brant  of  the  Pacific  coast  is  prince.  This 
is  not  the  sea-brant  of  the  Atlantic  coast,  but 
bernicula  nigricans,  an  entirely  different  bird, 
and  the  finest  and  most  gamy  of  American 
water-fowl.  It  is  found  in  great  abundance  on 
the  upper  Pacific  coast,  breeding  far  in  the 
northern  wilds.  Those  that  come  far  south  in 
winter  are  very  particular.  Most  all  the  bays 
and  inlets  of  the  California  coast  they  skip  en- 


SALT-WATER  BIRDS.  1 95 

tirely  until  they  reach  San  Diego  Bay.  In  that 
and  in  False  Bay  three  miles  north  of  it  they 
once  blackened  hundreds  of  acres  of  water  at  a 
time.  Then  everything  is  skipped  again  for 
almost  two  hundred  miles,  when  the  Bay  of  San 
Quentin  is  found  full  of  them.  This  brant  mi- 
grates only  at  night  and  over  the  sea.  It  despises 
the  land,  and  will  not  even  cross  a  small  point 
unless  it  is  very  far  around.  Occasionally  at  low 
tide  one  may  be  waddling  on  the  mud-flats,  but 
the  vast  majority  never  leave  the  salt  water. 

A  few  years  ago  these  California  coast  bays 
were  alive  with  life  that  made  the  soft  win- 
ter days  spent  upon  them  with  a  boat  a  charm- 
ing recreation.  Singly  and  in  flocks  pelicans, 
both  white  and  gray,  flapped  heavily  by,  now 
in  a  spiral  line  plunging  into  the  water,  then 
sitting  lazily  on  the  surface  a  moment  to 
swallow  the  captured  fish,  then  rising  again  in 
air  to  repeat  the  performance.  With  lazy  wing 
large  white  gulls  wheeled  around  your  head ; 
with  still  slower  wing  large  gray  ones  lounged  in 
the  sunny  air,  small  white  ones  bustled  about, 
and  smaller  gray  ones  displayed  still  more 
energy.  The  merganser  and  the  cormorant 


Ip6  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

drifted  on  the  smooth  water,  while  divers  of  all 
sizes  rose  and  sank  or  floated  in  it  with  only 
neck  or  head  above  the  surface.  Many  were  so 
tame  that,  standing  up  in  the  boat  when  the 
water  was  still,  you  could  see  them  dart  around 
below  and  snap  little  fish  with  forward  or  side- 
wise  stroke  of  the  long  neck  and  sharp  bill  with 
a  dexterity  quite  incredible  in  such  a  resisting 
force  as  water.  Here,  swiftly  descending  from 
on  high,  the  snowy  tern  broke  the  water  with 
a  splash ;  there  fish-ducks  and  butter-balls 
skimmed  the  surface  with  whistling  wing,  while 
teal,  mallards,  and  canvas-backs  dotted  it  far  and 
near.  But  among  them  you  would  look  in  vain 
for  a  black  brant,  for  they  are  very  aristocratic 
and  rarely  associate  with  the  common  herd  of 
water-fowl.  Far  out  from  the  shore,  however, 
you  could  see  thousands  of  dark  dots  on  the 
bright  sheen  of  the  water,  some  looming  above 
it  in  a  faint  mirage,  black  above  and  white  be- 
neath, and  from  their  direction  you  might  hear 
a  babel  that  comes  from  no  other  living  throats. 
But  little  would  you  gain  by  rowing  toward 
them.  Years  ago  they  were  far  too  wary  to 
approach.  One  had  to  wait  until  they  began 


SALT-WATER  BIRDS.  1 97 

to  fly ;  and  fly  they  would  not  until  ebbing 
of  the  tide. 

The  decoys  well  set,  ensconced  in  a  good 
blind  along  some  point,  we  have  not  long  to 
wait.  At  the  turning  of  the  tide  "  bay  birds  " 
begin  to  move.  First  come  the  curlew  in  large 
flocks,  with  buff  vests  and  brown  coats  shining 
alternately  in  the  sun  as  they  pitch  and  twist  in 
their  flight.  With  long  curved  bills  they  come 
almost  directly  toward  us,  their  penetrating  call 
ringing  clear  and  full  along  the  shore.  No  pret- 
tier chance  to  gather  in  a  few ;  and  there  is  no 
danger  of  disturbing  any  brant,  for  they  have 
not  begun  to  fly.  Here  comes  a  mob  of  willet, 
varying  through  all  shades  of  gray  as  changing 
light  plays  upon  them.  And  here  you  may 
have  a  cross-fire  on  a  volley  of  plover  from  the 
other  direction.  And  with  another  barrel  you 
might  send  whirling  into  the  water  a  stilt  that 
comes  along  unsuspicious  of  danger. 

But  it  is  soon  time  to  let  all  these  go,  for  over 
the  low  ridge  of  sand  where  the  froth  of  the 
breakers  is  tossed  against  the  blue  of  the  sky  a 
long  dark  line  rises.  Lengthening,  sinking,  and 
shortening,  then  rising  and  lengthening  again, 


198  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

the  line  comes  swiftly  on,  changing  fast  into  a 
string  of  black  beads.  Beside  each  bead  a 
flickering  motion  becomes  plain,  and  this  soon 
changes  into  the  rapid  beat  of  dusky  wings. 

Swiftly  the  line  advances,  the  scores  of  birds 
that  compose  it  growing  larger  and  darker  by 
the  instant,  yet  they  ride  the  warm  air  as  lightly 
as  a  flight  of  arrows.  Though  a  little  larger 
than  mallard  ducks,  the  flight  of  these  brant 
appears  less  labored  by  contrast,  and  their  wings 
seem  to  quiver  with  speed  instead  of  beating  the 
air.  Soon  each  bird  is  a  revolving  maze  of 
black  and  white,  and  then  they  set  their  wings 
and  glide  smoothly  downward,  almost  grazing 
the  water  some  twenty  yards  beyond  our  de- 
coys, and  showing  a  broad  skirt  of  white  below 
the  swarthy  breast,  and  a  snowy  collar  around  a 
long  jet-black  neck.  With  a  hoarse  Wa — ook, 
wa — ook,  wa — ook,  wa — ook  from  a  score  of 
throats,  the  flock  sweeps  past  our  decoys  in  even 
line.  Keep  perfectly  still,  for  they  are  too  far 
to  shoot  and  they  may  return.  On  they  go  some 
fifty  yards,  when  the  line  lengthens  and  rises  in 
a  long  string  with  black  wings  and  backs  glisten- 
ing in  the  bright  sun. 


SALT-WATER  BIRDS.  199 

Several  hundred  yards  they  go,  when  the  lino 
swings  with  wondrous  precision,  and  back  it 
comes,  headed  directly  toward  us.  Make  not  a 
motion,  and  keep  as  low  as  possible,  for  few 
birds  of  their  size  can  sheer  off  with  the  speed 
of  these  at  the  slightest  suspicion  of  danger. 
The  ends  of  the  line  fold  back,  and  it  bears  off 
a  bit  as  it  changes  into  a  wedge-shaped  mass. 
For  a  moment  each  dark  wing  fans  the  air  with 
rapid  stroke,  then  as  quickly  each  is  set  in  rigid 
curve,  the  air  begins  to  hiss  beneath  their  de- 
scending speed,  and  they  turn  themselves  upward 
and  set  their  wings  forward  to  alight.  But  sud- 
denly a  raucous  Wa — ook  bursts  from  a  dozen 
throats,  and  in  a  twinkling  the  orderly  array  of 
descending  black  turns  into  a  huddle  of  white 
and  jet  as  with  rapid  stroke  of  wing  the  whole 
flock  wheels  skyward  and  outward. 

Quick  they  are,  but  not  quite  quick  enough 
to  escape  a  quick  shot.  For  as  the  first  barrel 
of  one  gun  spouts  fire  over  the  water,  the  last 
bird  folds  its  black  wings,  droops  its  dark  neck, 
and  down  through  the  soft  sunlight  it  sinks  with 
a  splash  into  the  bay.  Before  the  smooth  sur- 
face breaks  beneath  its  weight  a  shining  whirl  of 


2OO  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

white  and  black  follows  it  at  the  report  of  a 
second  barrel.  A  third  barrel  rings  over  the 
bay ;  another  brant  halts  in  its  course  and  sinks 
with  heavily  laboring  wing  nearly  to  the  water, 
twists  sidewise  with  a  jerk  as  a  fourth  barrel 
bellows  into  the  confusion,  then  seaward  it 
stretches  its  white-collared,  neck  and,  skimming 
the  water,  fades  away  in  a  rapid  alternation  of 
black  and  white. 

Before  the  last  flock  is  out  of  sight  another 
dark  line  rises  over  the  sand-spit  where  the  surf  is 
grumbling.  The  brant  we  first  saw  in  the  bay 
were  but  a  small  portion  of  all  that  frequent  it. 
Most  of  them  are  out  at  sea  during  the  flow  of 
the  tide,  feeding  in  the  beds  of  kelp,  and  at  the 
ebb  they  return.  Now  rising,  now  lowering, 
but  swift  and  straight  in  a  long  wedge-shaped 
column,  the  black  ranks  come  on.  Down  the 
center  of  the  bight  where  our  blind  is  placed 
they  fly  until  within  some  four  hundred  yards, 
when  the  head  of  the  column  turns  a  little,  and 
directly  toward  the  decoys  the  whole  mass  bends 
its  way.  The  air  sings  beneath  their  stiffening 
wings,  then  comes  the  sharp,  rushing  sound  as 
the  birds  set  them  to  alight,  then  the  splash  of 


SALT-WATER  BIRDS.  201 

water  as  the  lower  ones  settle  among  the  decoys. 
As  we  rise  in  the  blind  the  whole  mass  is  turned 
into  a  laboring  turmoil  of  black  and  white,  with 
Wa — ook,  wa — ook,  wa — ook  clanging  from  a  hun- 
dred white-collared  throats.  Four  barrels  flame 
from  the  blind,  and  three  brant  sink  with  sullen 
splash.  Two  more  lag  behind  their  fast-retreat- 
ing comrades,  one  gradually  rising  and  overtaking 
them,  the  other  settling  lower  and  lower,  until, 
cleaving  a  long  furrow  in  the  smooth  surface  of 
the  bay,  it  floats  dead  nearly  a  half-mile  away. 

Beyond  where  the  curlew  are  flitting  along 
the  wet  shore,  and  the  gull  is  winding  his  airy 
way ;  beyond  where  the  snipe  are  whisking  over 
the  blue  waters,  and  the  ever-hungry  pelican 
with  heavy  plunge  is  shivering  the  smooth 
mirror  beneath,  our  eyes  are  again  fixed  in  deep 
expectation.  What  countless  hordes  of  the 
nobility  of  water-fowl  have  streamed  over  that 
sand-spit  in  the  ages  gone !  And  how  long  be- 
fore the  whole  winter  shall  pass  with  never  a 
dark-dotted  line  rising  into  the  blue  sky  beyond 
it! 

But  a  soft  winnowing  of  the  air  behind  dis- 
turbs our  reflections  and  reminds  us  it  is  not 


2O2  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

from  the  sea  alone  that  these  birds  come.  Too 
late  the  discovery,  for  quick  as  the  shying  of  the 
swiftest  duck  is  the  wheeling  of  this  active  little 
goose.  Wa — ook,  wa — ook,  wa — ook  resounds 
from  amid  the  wiff,  wiff,  wiff  of  sheering  pinions, 
and  before  the  guns  can  be  turned  upon  them 
the  brant  are  out  of  reach.  Vainly  the  fire 
streams  toward  them ;  not  a  twitch  in  the  black 
ranks;  not  a  dusky  feather  parts  its  hold. 

And  now  the  armies  of  brant  are  gathering  in 
earnest,  for  the  tide  is  half  out  and  the  time  for 
the  grand  march  come.  Thus  far  we  have  seen 
only  the  skirmish-line.  But  now  they  are  com- 
ing in  battalions.  Some  are  in  long  lines,  point 
foremost,  some  in  wedge-shaped  masses,  others 
in  crescent  lines,  others  in  converging  strings. 
Vainly  you  seek  the  motive  for  this  activity. 
The  brant  are  not  feeding,  nor  on  the  way  to 
feed.  This  particular  stage  of  the  tide  seems  no 
better  adapted  to  wing  exercise  than  any  other 
stage,  and  yet  nearly  every  brant  in  the  land  is 
in  motion.  Still,  they  relax  no  caution,  and 
unless  all  is  quiet  in  the  blind  it  is  vain  to  expect 
a  close  shot.  And  the  majority  of  the  flocks 
aim  for  the  decoys,  and  if  not  disturbed  will 


SALT-WATER  BIRDS.  2O3 

settle  among  them.  Though  all  the  brant  now 
want  to  fly  and  seem  to  have  a  strange  aversion 
to  the  water,  no  sooner  do  they  see  the  decoys 
than  down  they  glide  toward  them — the  best 
illustration  of  the  adage,  "One  fool  makes 
many." 

And  so  flock  after  flock  sets  its  wings  and 
goes  hissing  down  to  the  decoys  in  perfect  array 
and  swiftly  as  a  swooping  hawk,  until  the  first 
broadside  is  poured  into  the  swarthy  line,  and 
the  second  into  the  throbbing  whirl  of  white  and 
black  into  which  the  orderly  ranks  are  instantly 
changed. 

None  of  the  winged  myriads  from  the  North 
defy  the  hunter's  fire  like  this  dark  wanderer 
from  home.  Sometimes  two  or  three  birds  go 
splashing  below  as  a  broadside  opens  upon  a 
flock,  but  more  often  only  one  comes  down, 
while  another  perhaps  careens  a  little  and  lags 
behind  a  few  moments,  then  rights  himself  and 
overtakes  his  comrades  or  settles  slowly  into  the 
far-distant  water.  Here  comes  a  flock  so  glossy, 
as  the  sun  shines  from  their  beating  wings  and 
white  skirts,  that  they  seem  within  easy  reach ; 
yet  at  the  roar  of  the  guns  the  line  merely 


204  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

lengthens,  swerves  and  rises,  and  not  even  a 
feather  comes  whiffling  down.  Here  comes 
another  flock  so  close  that  we  see  the  dark  vests 
and  snowy  underclothes  pictured  in  the  smooth 
water  between  them  and  us.  In  abiding  confi- 
dence we  open  a  full  battery  upon  them,  yet  the 
only  result  is  a  whirl  of  white  and  black,  a 
clamor  of  hoarse  throats,  and  increased  speed  in 
the  departing  line. 


XIV. 

THE  WILD   TURKEY. 

To  become  expert  in  hunting  the  wild  turkey 
one  must  be  almost  raised  upon  its  range.  On 
nearly  all  other  game  one  can  have  some  success 
with  limited  experience  if  he  be  a  natural  hunter 
and  a  good  shot,  and  can  keep  cool.  But  these 
qualities  are  not  enough  for  success  with  the 
turkey.  One  may  indeed  catch  him  napping  at 
long  intervals.  But  this  is  too  unreliable.  One 
may  also  get  a  shot  by  putting  one's  self  abso- 
lutely under  some  backwoods  guide  who  calls 
the  turkey  to  him.  But  this  is  like  shooting  a 
moose  that  an  Indian  has  called  to  you,  or  a  deer 
that  some  guide  rows  you  to  in  the  water.  This 
is  doing  the  dirty  work  while  some  one  else  does 
the  noble  part  of  the  business.  Something  in 
my  nature  always  made  me  rebel  against  pulling 
the  trigger  for  any  one  else.  It  was  probably 

205 


2O6  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

meanness,  but  if  I  could  not  find  game  myself  I 
did  not  want  it. 

Thus,  not  being  "native,  and  to  the  manner 
born,"  I  never  became  a  genuine  turkey-hunter; 
and,  hunting  alone,  never  had  the  success  I  have 
had  with  other  game.  But  I  have  felt  enough 
bounding  of  the  pulse  in  the  deep  woods  to  teach 
me  that  the  noblest  of  all  American  game  is  the 
turkey. 

When  in  the  morning  of  early  spring  the  roll 
of  the  old  gobbler  breaks  upon  your  ear  from 
the  distant  timber  along  the  river-bottom  or  the 
mountain-side,  your  sleep  is  done.  The  tender 
Boo — woo — woo  of  the  pinnated  grouse,  the  mel- 
low Bob  white  of  the  quail,  or  the  sweet  Ril — 
wil — lil  of  the  upland  plover  all  send  their  peculiar 
thrill  through  your  breast,  yet  they  lull  you  to 
sleep  again.  But  when  the  wild  gobble  of  the  old 
bird  rings  upon  your  ear  from  afar,  nothing  can 
hold  you  in  bed.  Nor  need  any  one  tell  you 
it  is  useless  to  try  to  sneak  close  enough  for  a 
shot  at  him.  You  are  as  determined  to  try  it 
as  to  run  after  a  deer  that  has  been  started. 

With  keen  eye  scanning  every  spot  and  motion 
in  the  woods  far  ahead,  you  move  with  cautious 


THE    WILD    TURKEY.  2O? 

step,  and  hope  mounting  ever  higher  as  the  gob- 
bler's defiance  sounds  nearer.  The  squirrel,  as 
from  tree  to  tree  he  flings  his  graceful  form  above 
your  path,  seems  contemptible  now ;  and  the 
raccoon,  stretched  upon  some  big  limb  to  catch 
the  first  beams  of  the  rising  sun,  you  hardly 
deem  worthy  of  a  glance.  Little  more  does  the 
ruffed  grouse  attract  your  attention  as  he  dashes 
the  morning  dew  from  the  whitening  plum-tree, 
or  the  woodcock  whirling  out  from  among  the 
strange  leaves  of  the  pitcher-plant. 

Again  he  gobbles ;  yes,  it  is  plainly  closer, 
but  still  far  away:  and  "  far  away"  in  the  woods 
is  much  longer  than  in  the  open.  On  you  sneak 
where  the  wild  grape  is  opening  its  little  clusters 
of  flowers ;  over  the  fallen  log  where  the  wood- 
bine is  twining  its  soft  green  you  step  with  extra 
care ;  and  under  the  spreading  dogwood  whose 
pure  white  involucres  cover  its  leaves  like  snow, 
you  stop  to  listen.  It  suddenly  occurs  to  you 
that  it  is  some  time  since  the  last  gobble  rang 
over  the  tree-tops.  All  of  a  sudden  the  woods 
seem  very  lonesome  without  that  gobbling.  A 
vast  solitude  is  about  you,  which  you  just  begin 
to  realize  as  the  dreadful  suspicion  creeps  to 


2O8  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

your  soul  that  the  gobbler  is  himself  going  to 
take  a  hand  in  the  morning's  program.  The 
heavy  reveille  of  the  big  pileated  woodpecker  on 
the  storm-scarred  head  of  some  patriarch  of  the 
forest  only  intensifies  this  loneliness,  and  the  far- 
off  tinkle  of  the  bell  on  some  settler's  cow — the 
only  sound  of  man  that  mars  the  silence  of  the 
virgin  forest — makes  it  still  more  lonely,  as  the 
painful  truth  steals  upon  you  that  you  are 
mightily  alone. 

Late  in  summer,  when  the  young  are  almost 
full  grown  and  you  can  hunt  turkeys  with  a  dog, 
what  a  thrill  fresh  scratchings  sent  through  you, 
and  how  you  studied  the  tracks  the  big  birds  had 
left  in  the  moist  earth !  Fragrance  from  clusters 
of  purpling  fox-grapes  made  the  woods  more 
suggestive  of  game  than  ever,  and  the  jar  of 
leaves  beneath  the  spring  of  the  squirrel  brought 
the  gun  with  convulsive  jerk  half  off  your 
shoulder.  Do  you  remember  how,  down  in  the 
edge  of  the  dark  timber  of  the  river-bottom 
where  ivy  was  reddening  over  the  moss-covered 
stump,  and  trumpet-vines  yellowing  over  the 
leaning  basswood,  everything  whispered  of  — 
turkey?  And  what  a  moment  was  that  when 


THE    WILD    TURKEY.  2CX) 

in  the  distance  you  heard  a  faint  Putt — puttputt, 
and  the  sound  of  heavy  wings  in  flight,  and  ran 
dashing  through  dense  ranks  of  beggar-ticks  and 
dodging  around  cat-briers  in  vain  hope  of  a  shot ! 
If  you  had  been  still  you  might  have  had  a  shot 
at  one  or  more  of  them  afterward,  but  your  rush 
and  racket  put  that  out  of  the  question  within 
any  reasonable  time.  Still,  you  enjoyed  it  all  the 
same  and  murmured  something  about  its  being 
better  to  have  loved  and  lost  than  never  to  have 
loved  at  all.  Which  many  a  one  has  indorsed. 

A  great  day  was  that  when,  after  practicing 
on  different  kinds  of  turkey-call,  you  went  out 
to  try  them.  The  wing-bone  you  found  to  need 
too  much  practice  and  coolness.  It  was  more 
easy  than  the  rest  to  make  a  false  note  on,  and 
as  you  were  sure  to  be  nervous  at  the  first  trial 
it  was  not  safe  to  rely  on  it.  For  the  same 
reasons  you  abandoned  trying  to  call  with  your 
throat;  and  the  green  leaf  and  piece  of  thin 
rubber  in  the  mouth  were  equally  unsafe.  The 
bit  of  cow-horn  with  a  wooden  plug  and  a  nail 
in  it  to  be  scraped  on  a  whetstone  came  nearer 
the  requirements  of  a  tyro ;  but  the  little  wooden 
box  with  projecting  edge  to  be  scraped  on  the 


2IO  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

stock  or  barrel  of  the  gun  seemed  the  most  con- 
venient, and  after  a  few  trials  of  it  you  could 
almost  see  a  whole  flock  of  turkeys  marching 
upon  your  blind. 

The  great  day  came,  and  you  scattered  a  flock. 
Little  trouble  to  do  that,  provided  you  could 
find  them  and  did  not  walk  so  slowly  as  to  let 
them  run  away  from  you.  You  made  a  blind 
beside  a  fallen  log  under  the  shadow  of  big  gray 
toadstools,  drew  over  it  the  yellowing  garlands 
of  the  bitter-sweet  and  the  reddening  branches 
of  the  young  maple,  and  sat  down  to  try  the 
call.  How  nicely  it  worked,  and  how  steady 
your  nerves!  What  mighty  expectations  fired 
your  burning  heart !  Few  days  in  life  like  these ; 
few  minutes  in  the  day ! 

It  suddenly  strikes  you  that  nothing  in  the 
turkey  line  is  coming.  A  gray  squirrel  descends 
a  big  tree  but  a  few  feet  from  you  and,  with  head 
downwards  and  tail  flirting,  speaks  his  little  piece 
with  explosive  emphasis,  as  if  ordering  you  out 
of  his  kingdom ;  but  in  vain  you  scan  the  dim 
aisles  of  the  forest  for  the  bobbing  head  of  a 
turkey,  and  vainly  you  listen  for  the  plaintive 
yelp  of  the  old  hen.  Surely  you  have  not  called 


THE    WILD    TURKEY.  211 

too  often  or  too  loud.  You  have  been  duly 
warned  about  that,  and  you  think  you  have  the 
lesson.  Like  many  another  lesson,  it  is  easy  until 
you  come  to  apply  it.  But  you  believe  you  are 
right,  and  on  you  go.  The  chewink  trots  around 
you  with  mincing  tread,  scratches  up  dead  leaves, 
and  with  sorrowful  tone,  as  if  conscious  he  soon 
must  go,  replies  with  his  little  two-notes  to  the 
piping  of  the  robin,  whose  shrill  treble  has  such 
a  different  tone  from  the  carol  of  spring.  Sud- 
denly there  is  a  faint  rustling  of  dead  leaves  on 
the  right,  and  a  ruffed  grouse  comes  walking 
gracefully  along,  as  if  all  the  world  were  his  for 
the  day.  Another,  and  another,  and  nearly  a 
dozen  more  but  a  trifle  smaller  follow  a  few 
yards  in  front  of  you.  Here  one  scratches  in 
the  leaves ;  there  one  mounts  another  fallen  log ; 
here  comes  another  toward  you  as  if  he  would 
enter  your  blind ;  one  stops  and  preens  his 
feathers,  and  three  or  four  more  flutter  into  a 
thorn-apple  to  see  if  the  fruit  is  yet  ripe.  What 
graceful  birds,  as  they  wheel  and  circle  with 
swelling  breasts  all  mottled  with  snow  and  jet 
alternating  with  the  rich  rosewood  and  mahogany 
colors  of  their  backs  and  wings !  Two  or  three  at 


212  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

a  shot  you  could  kill  if  you  wished.  But  you 
let  them  all  go,  for  you  are  after  turkeys  to-day. 

A  few  more  scrapes  of  the  little  box  emit 
plaintive  yelps,  soft  and  low  yet  penetrating. 
They  seem  right  to  your  ears,  and — scarcely 
dare  you  believe  it,  but — something  very  much 
like  them  follows  in  the  distance,  too  long  after 
for  an  echo,  yet  so  soon  after  that  it  must  be  in 
answer  to  the  call.  Careful  now!  The  birds 
are  young  and  not  over-sharp,  but  still  you  must 
not  grow  too  confident  or  you  may  make  a  fatal 
slip.  After  a  proper  time  you  give  two  or  three 
more  careful  calls,  and  your  hair  almost  lifts  your 
hat  off  as  the  reply  sounds  unmistakably  nearer. 
The  critical  time  is  at  hand  when  the  temptation 
to  call  too  quickly,  too  often,  too  loud,  or  to 
make  a  false  note  through  nervousness,  will  often 
overcome  one,  and  Putt — putt — -putt  in  the  dis- 
tance is  all  you  will  again  hear  of  your  game. 
And  you  may  not  have  that  little  satisfaction, 
but  may  sit  and  call  to  the  woods  and  rills  until 
the  inner  man  begins  to  rebel. 

Soon  the  reply  comes  so  alarmingly  near  that 
it  is  time  to  get  the  gun  ready,  so  that  it  will 
not  have  to  be  moved  after  the  game  comes  in 


THE    WILD    TURKEY.  21$ 

sight,  for  the  slightest  flash  of  light  from  it, 
even  with  no  sun  shining  on  it,  may  make  the 
game  vanish  before  the  quickest  shot  could  catch 
it.  And  now  the  utmost  caution  with  the  call 
is  needed,  for  there  is  little  distance  to  soften 
your  mistakes.  Your  fingers,  too,  are  trembling: 
but  there  is  no  disgrace  about  that ;  for  the  man 
who  cannot  get  nervous  in  the  presence  of  noble 
game  is  but  a  butcher  and  not  a  sportsman.  Ten- 
derly you  scrape  the  raised  edge  of  the  little  box 
against  the  gun,  and  get  ready  to  touch  the 
trigger.  Soon  there  is  an  answer,  and  your  heart 
beats  as  never  before,  for  you  realize  it  is  so 
close  that  it  will  not  be  safe  to  answer  it.  The 
dog  knows  it  too,  for  now  he  lies  still  as  death 
beside  you.  He  trembles,  and  the  twitching  at 
his  nose  shows  he  would  whine  with  anxiety  if 
he  were  not  too  well  broken. 

Suddenly  your  straining  eyes  detect  something 
moving  in  the  edge  of  the  underbrush  beyond 
the  little  open  space  in  front  of  your  blind,  and 
in  a  moment  more  out  steps  a  dark  bird  that  to 
your  startled  fancy  seems  as  large  as  an  ostrich. 
He  is  not  fifty  yards  away ;  there  is  no  time  to 
gauge  his  size,  or  speculate  on  his  coming  closer. 


214  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

Bang  goes  the  gun,  and  you  almost  tear  your 
eyes  out  breaking  from  the  blind  as  you  hear  a 
beat  of  heavy  wings  which  is  not  that  of  flight. 
In  a  moment  man,  dog,  and  turkey  are  tumbling 
about  in  a  heap,  and  you  have  the  bird  by  the 
neck.  Only  a  young  one,  small  and  not  over- 
fat  ;  but  still  a  turkey,  as  really  as  if  he  weighed 
a  ton. 

And  don't  allow  your  triumph  to  be  marred 
by  the  reflection  that  you  might  not  have  called 
him  so  easily  if  he  had  been  a  little  larger. 

The  wildest  of  game  is  sometimes  off  guard, 
and  the  rankest  blockhead  may  have  luck  enough 
to  make  him  think  himself  a  born  hunter.  It  is 
very  seldom  that  the  wild  turkey  is  thus  found 
off  watch,  but  I  once  caught  a  full  drove  of 
them  napping,  in  a  way  allowed  few  mortal  men. 

It  was  a  little  after  dawn,  in  November  1864, 
when,  with  several  companions,  I  crossed  the 
Illinois  River  for  a  deer-drive  in  the  timbered 
bluffs  on  the  east  side.  There  were  then  many 
miles  of  heavy  timber  with  scarcely  a  settler,  for 
plenty  of  the  best  prairie  lay  yet  untaken.  The 
first  snow  of  the  season  had  fallen  during  the 
night,  and  lay  some  two  inches  deep  on  the 


THE    WILD    TURKEY.  21$ 

ground.  Mallards  and  sprig-tails,  widgeons,  gad- 
wells,  and  blue-bills,  with  teal  by  the  thousand, 
whizzed  southward  over  our  heads  as  we  crossed 
the  rope  ferry;  and  dark  lines  in  the  zenith 
headed  in  the  same  direction,  from  which  fell 
the  clarion  tones  of  the  goose  and  the  reverberat- 
ing tremolo  of  the  sand-hill  crane,  told  that  they 
too  thought  it  time  to  be  looking  up  winter 
quarters.  With  our  old-fashioned  muzzle-loaders, 
loaded  with  Ely's  wire  buckshot  cartridges, — 
which  could  always  be  relied  on  to  go  like  a 
bullet  when  you  wanted  them  to  scatter,  and  to 
break  at  the  muzzle  when  you  wanted  them  to 
hold  together,  but  which  in  the  long-run  were 
better  than  loose  buckshot, — we  were  soon 
upon  the  bluffs.  Nearly  all  the  leaves  had  fallen 
except  the  brown  foliage  of  the  white  oaks ;  the 
woods,  though  quite  open,  looked  wild,  but  there 
was  no  sign  of  life  except  big  yellow  fox-squir- 
rels and  gray  squirrels  scampering  over  the 
ground,  dodging  around  some  trunk  or  hiding  in 
some  crotch,  while  the  melancholy  jingle  of  the 
jay  was  about  the  only  sign  of  bird-life. 

But  before  I  with  one-companion  had  gone  a 
mile,  tracks  of  the  wild  turkey  began  to  appear 


2 1 6  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

in  great  numbers ;  and  as  they  were  then  quite 
plenty  here,  and  as  the  walking  was  soft,  we 
stopped  talking  and  slipped  along  quietly.  We 
had  faint  hope  and  no  expectation ;  but  as  it  was 
on  the  way  to  our  stands  for  the  deer-drive,  we 
thought  we  might  as  well  make  the  best  of  what 
faint  chance  there  was.  The  number  of  tracks 
rapidly  increased,  and  it  became  plain  that  not  a 
flock  but  a  large  drove  was  feeding  ahead  of  us. 
We  sped  along  on  half  tiptoe,  with  guns  ready, 
and  suddenly  the  silence  of  the  woods  was  broken 
as  we  came  to  the  edge  of  a  little  ravine  by  such 
a  roar  of  wings  as -was  rarely  heard  there  even 
in  those  days,  and  probably  never  now  in  that 
State.  From  the  bottom  of  the  ravine,  not  over 
twenty  feet  deep  and  not  ten  yards  distant, 
thirty  or  forty  full-grown  turkeys,  each  seeming 
as  big  as  an  open  umbrella,  were  in  the  air  at 
once  exactly  like  a  flock  of  quails,  and  mounting 
with  a  velocity  and  ease  quite  incredible  to  those 
who  have  seen  only  the  domestic  turkey  fly  up 
to  roost.  Before  such  a  dress  parade  all  other 
sights  of  the  hills  and  woods  seem  ridiculous. 
I  would  go  farther  without  a  gun  to  see  it  once 
more  than  to  see  the  biggest  moose  that  ever 


THE    WILD    TURKEY. 

Indian  called  and  with  the  best  rifle  in  hand  that 
ever  white  man  made.  The  finest  buck  that 
ever  dashed  the  snow  from  the  brush  as  he 
leaped  the  big  hurdles  of  a  windfall  is  a  "  chump 
show  "  beside  it,  and  the  sheen  of  those  brilliant 
wings  and  backs,  as  seen  in  memory  alone,  is  far 
more  pleasant  after  the  lapse  of  thirty  years  than 
a  wall  full  of  the  finest  "trophies"  that  elk  or 
big-horn  ever  bore.  The  beamy  chestnut  and 
glistening  black  and  bronze,  the  red  of  dewlaps 
and  wattles  with  the  dark  fringes  on  the  gob- 
bler's breasts,  all  shone  before  our  rising  guns  like 
the  splendors  of  some  warrior  host  in  full  charge 
upon  us. 

My  companion  was  an  old  hunter,  and  the 
best  shot  in  Marshall  County.  For  twenty-two 
I  was  as  good  a  brush-shot  as  old  New  Jersey 
generally  graduates  from  her  cat-brier  swamps, 
though  not  as  cool  and  steady  under  all  circum- 
stances as  my  companion.  But  then  it  did  not 
need  much  skill  to  take  in  at  least  four.  The 
broad  tails  outspread  like  huge  fans,  and  the  great 
flapping  wings  made  such  big  marks  it  was  im- 
possible to  miss  them  with  even  a  pistol ;  while 
the  buckshot  in  the  wire  cages  of  the  cartridges 


2l8  GAME-BIRDS  AT  HOME. 

were  surely  big  enough  to  kill.  Within  brick- 
bat-range three  grand  birds  were  scattering 
leaves  and  snow  in  the  wake  of  their  mighty 
wings,  and  so  close  together  that  only  about  an 
inch  of  space  appeared  between  them.  Unable 
to  resist  the  temptation  to  play  the  pig,  I  whirled 
the  gun  upon  this  central  point  and  fired,  and, 
without  waiting  for  the  rising  of  the  smoke  to 
show  the  result,  turned  the  other  barrel  on  a  big 
gobbler  that  was  wheeling  to  my  side  with  his 
long  beard  flat  against  his  breast  with  speed. 
My  companion  picked  out  a  single  bird  for  each 
barrel,  and  both  the  first  and  second  barrels  of 
the  two  guns  woke  the  echoes  of  the  hills  to- 
gether, neither  being  wasted  on  the  same  bird. 

Like  rockets  the  rest  of  the  flock  towered  over 
the  trees  or  wound  among  the  tops,  some  spin- 
ning away  on  straight  lines,  others  rising  more 
as  if  they  still  wanted  us  to  see  them.  One 
great  gobbler  swayed  the  head  of  a  trim  bass- 
wood  several  feet  out  of  perpendicular  as  he  lit 
in  its  top  some  three  hundred  yards  away,  and 
another  brightened  with  his  presence  the  somber 
top  of  a  white  oak  a  little  farther  on.  But  the 
rest  faded  over  the  distant  trees  like  a  beautiful 


THE    WILD    TURKEY. 


dream,   and  the  roar  of  their  wings  died  away 
like  the  last  strain  of  some  soul-touching  song. 

"  How  many  dropped?  " 

As  Prometheus  observed  to  lo, 


TO  fj.r)  nafyeiv  crot  xpeiacrov  rj  jua&eiv  raSe. 


He  was  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  tell  her  it 
was  none  of  her  business. 


THE   END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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